


leitmotif

by mnabokov



Series: Symphonie Fantastique [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, HP: EWE, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Post-Hogwarts, Torture, War Era, draco is too smart for his own good, i want to say sci fi but there isn't enough science to be sci fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6130696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months have passed and this is no longer a quick encounter in a shaded corridor in Hogwarts; they're in the middle of a war and it feels wrong, but currently Draco isn't in the best position to be making decisions. In which Draco and Harry try to figure out what soft fruits, Einstein, and the Elder Wand have in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of the Symphonie Fantastique series, set after HBP.
> 
> "But every man is more than just himself; he also represents the unique, the very special and always significant and remarkable point at which the world's phenomena intersect, only once in this way and never again." - Hermann Hesse

“ _Crucio_.”

At first, Draco does not feel anything.

It is his mother and father, in Draco’s bedroom, in Malfoy Manor.

The things in his room are intact, paraphernalia perfectly organized on his desk. He sees the vicious model of a Hebridean Black dragon, a present from some relative for one of his birthdays. It spreads its wings, pinions just grazing the walls of its glass confinement – Draco thinks there’s some sort of perverse irony there but doesn’t have time to think much of it – and next to it is a slim, silver box containing an assortment of elegant quills.

Above his desk is an inky poster of the Akihito School of Magic, from one of Father’s trips to Wizarding Japan. It depicts a snowy Shinto shrine next to a large body of water, with an eerie sea creature poking its head above the water every now and then.

Everything is normal enough, but when Draco watches the scene in front of him unfold, it’s as though he’s in a dream.

The only thing that would seem out of place is the Dark Lord, standing in the very center of Draco’s room. His cloak hangs from his shoulders, pooling on the gray carpet, and at his feet lies Draco’s mother.

Narcissa Malfoy is wearing her finest dress robes, but they are wrinkled and stained with sweat. Her hair is dull and her limbs are limp, sprawling all over Draco’s carpet. She lets out a soft groan.

“ _Crucio_ ,” Voldemort says again, and it spills from his lips with an air of pleasantry. Draco’s mother shrieks.

At the sound, terror flutters in the cavity of Draco’s ribs, a robin redbreast in a birdcage. He grinds his teeth together, narrowing his eyes. With no small amount of effort, he pulls a mental wall around his thoughts, brick by brick.

“Dear Narcissa,” the Dark Lord purrs.

And in the corner of Draco’s bedroom stands Draco’s father, right next to a tapestry of the sacred twenty-eight. After his stint in Azkaban, Lucius Malfoy is a shell of the man he once was, spineless and unseeing. Draco feels like revulsion in his belly when he sees his father like this.

“Sweet Narcissa,” Voldemort continues, voice saccharine. He waves his wand and Narcissa flips violently onto her back, lying supine on the floor. Her hair splays underneath her head, wreathing her in a halo. She gapes silently for breath. “I did not want to do this, truly.”

The Dark Lord sweeps around her, his robes rippling around him. A crooked smile carves itself onto his face, and Draco wants to scratch it off with a knife.

“But how can I not? When your husband, released from Azkaban, has done nothing to aid me in my conquests, and when your son, your sweet, darling Draco, has failed in his one and only task?” The words are whispered, but their gravitas carries the weight of a planet. Draco thinks his mother might die tonight.

The realization pulls Draco with such force, it feels as though his lungs are collapsing under their weight. Suddenly, Draco’s bones turn into lead and he can feel his hands beginning to tremble. Fleetingly, Draco thinks of his tutor, from a long time ago. She had been obsessed with the renowned wizard Einstein and his spacetime continuum. Draco’s readings float back to him.

_The curvature of spacetime by matter not only stretches or shrinks distances, depending on their direction with respect to the gravitational field, but also appears to slow down the flow of time. This effect is called gravitational time dilation._

“What other option do their actions offer me, Narcissa?”

Voldemort murmurs the Conjunctivitis curse under his breath, and Narcissa cries out once more, a gruesome series of screams. Tears stream down her face. Her wail reverberates in Draco’s chest, in his bones. But he knows better than to interfere.

“What better way to punish the Malfoys than to have them watch Narcissa, as she finally succumbs to the Dark Lord’s wishes?”

At this, Voldemort chuckles hollowly.

“ _Avis_ ,” says the Dark Lord. A flock of Auguries sprouts from the tip of Voldemort’s wand, eyes downcast and doleful. Voldemort cocks his head then, as if wondering what would happen if he continued. “ _Oppugno_.”

The Auguries cry out, surging toward Narcissa in a cascade of gray and green.

They land on Narcissa’s supine body, digging their claws into her robes. Draco averts his eyes quickly. His lungs have seemed to shrivel into stone and everything is too tight: skin puckering and pinching his flesh, his flesh tugging on his bones, and Draco has forgotten how to breathe.

“Please,” Draco thinks he hears.

Draco feels his chest shaking, his body quivering with anger. Time grinds to a stuttering halt; Draco is staring at the wall across from him, unseeing. Narcissa’s cries are liquid horror, dark and low and inhuman. Draco recognizes it as a sound that lives deep within his own throat as it begins to stir, threatening to rip its way out of his lungs – his skin feels too small and he can’t fucking _breathe –_

He does not know how long he stands there, completely unmoving, listening to screams pinging off his bedroom walls.

_Gravitational time dilation is an elusive by-product of Special Relativity. When you are in the vicinity of a gravity source, time slows down. Two observers may experience dilation in time when viewing the same event from varying distances._

Narcissa’s pleas halt when Voldemort slashes his wand through the air once more, vanishing the Auguries. Blood seeps into Draco’s gray carpet, turning it burgundy. What’s left of Narcissa’s face is mutilated and mangled; Draco can make out the two slopes of her lips, the lump of her nose and two sunken hollows where her eyes once were. Her mouth still gapes, opening and closing noiselessly. The folds of her silk robes are either torn or stained with sweat or soaked with blood.

“ _Crucio_ ,” Voldemort says again, gently, reverently. The mutilated face resembling Narcissa’s screams and Draco resists the urge to screw his eyes shut. “Would you like to try, Draco?”

“No,” Draco hears himself say, and his throat feels like it’s stuffed with sawdust. He can’t breathe – his blood pounds in his head and all he can hear is Scylla in one ear and Charybdis in the other.

“Pity.”

Draco’s eyes water and his mouth feels unbelievably dry. Can’t breathe, can’t move – he can’t –

“I could have done much worse, you know,” the Dark Lord muses, gazing down at the bloody remains of Narcissa. Draco agrees. In the Dark Lord’s time in the Manor, Draco’s seen things that will never leave his nightmares. “The Dark Lord has been merciful,” Voldemort concludes.

Voldemort waves his wand one last time.

This is the action – the simplest, elementary flick – but it plays in Draco’s head, over and over again. Hours, days, months from now, he will imagine the movement: thoughts turn into nerves firing, interneurons pinging into motor neurons, flesh pulling on bone in one smooth action –

One breath. “ _Avada Kedavra."_

Barely a twitch of his wrist, and Narcissa Malfoy’s mouth does not move any longer. Her chest falls one last time, and she is unbelievably still.

“Take this as a warning, Draco,” Voldemort says pleasantly, even running a hand across the blades of Draco’s shoulders before exiting the room. Lucius Malfoy follows close after, stepping over the body of his dead wife, not even glancing at his son.

Silence rings throughout the room. Draco is alone.

He breathes one slow breath at a time, concentrates on the rise and fall of his chest, not the body. Never the body.

His mother is dead.

Draco’s knees crumple and he falls into a kneeling position on the floor. Blood stains his trousers, and Draco’s eyes fix upon the silver ring on Narcissa’s hand. It is a fat, silver signet ring, not dissimilar to Draco’s own. It is untarnished, only splattered with a little bit of blood.

His lungs flutter in his chest and Draco thinks he can feel his chest quivering. His head buzzes with static.

It feels as though he’s been kneeling for just a heartbeat, before Yaxley and Nott step in, presumably on the Dark Lord’s orders. They speak, but Draco does not hear them. His mind feels strangely blank.

 _In most circumstances, such gravitational time dilation is minuscule and hardly observable, but it can become very significant when spacetime is curved by a massive object, such as a black hole_.

Dolohov comes in to usher him from the room and everything still feels very dreamlike.

Candlelight burns low, flickering in the corners of his vision as Draco walks to the Malfoys’ library. It is uncomfortably warm, even as Draco cracks open the spine of a thick text. He is reading, eyes flitting listlessly over a line of text when his thumb moves to brush against the fat signet ring on his finger. It is cold and cruel and reminds Draco of his mother with a sting. This is when the dream ends, when Draco begins to wake to the sharp prick of reality.

When Draco returns to his room that night, it is spotless.

-

The realization slams into him like a maelstrom that night, causes his belly to churn and a blend of emotions to seethe under his skin. He sits on the foot of his bed, the scene replaying over and over in his head, screams filling his ears. He clenches his hands into fists so tight, eight crescents of blood stain his palms when he unclenches them to wipe the tears dripping off his nose. Quickly, he clamps down on his thoughts, wrapping them tightly within the sheet of Occulumency skills Aunt Bella taught him; it is not safe for his emotions to wander in the Manor.

After he leaves his room that night, minutes blur into hours blur into days blur into weeks. He doesn’t know how much time has passed since his mother’s death; he simply follows the tasks set in front of him. He buries himself in his work, leaving his room only to work in the library, sifting through book after book and taking notes upon notes until his hand blisters.

The other Death Eaters are shadows at the edges of his vision – there, but barely noticeable. Their appearances around the Manor have dwindled down to nightly visits and attendance at meetings but Draco pays them no mind. The Dark Lord has assigned Draco his own work to do.

-

 _Plangentine is a rare fruit that ripens in the winter. It grows under peculiar conditions, and only in the presence of magic_.

Shadows waltz across Draco’s paper, chasing the soft fronds of his quill and pirouetting over his ink-smeared hands. His dim candle struggles against the weight of darkness, shadows creeping into the edges of the library and peering over Draco’s shoulder.

The library is quiet, perfectly still.

Draco is alone.

_The plangentine is gathered in the evening and must be boiled until soft to be used in potions._

He runs his left thumb over the square edges of his signet ring, fingering the sharp design there. Narcissa’s quivering voice fills the room – " _please_ ,” she had cried, she had _begged_ and Draco did nothing –

 _It has the quality of a raw persimmon, firm to the touch and slightly tart_ –

Draco thinks of gray-green Auguries, of the pale curve of the Dark Lord’s wrist, the sharp line of his wand. If only he had killed Dumbledore that night, had just clamped down on the emotions roiling in his chest; if only he hadn’t _failed_ –

 _When eaten in its raw form, consumption will replenish the user’s health. When boiled, plangentine takes on the quality of ripe persimmon, tender and fleshy_.

Narcissa Malfoy’s bloody body, the way her silk robes sunk into the wounds on her chest, her arms, her neck, her face; fabric molding into the blood oozing from her wounds, sticking to her raw flesh and the coppery, tangy smell – he could have _saved_ her –

 _When used in potions, it allows the user to replenish energy and health even in small portions_.

Draco slams the book shut, heart racing. He pulls his mental wards around him with difficulty; the anger in his bones is dangerous, and Draco feels a flicker of nervousness. It is unwise to remain here, in the Manor, when his emotions are so raw, so quick to surface like this. If anyone with a wandering mind stumbles upon his thoughts –

No, once Draco finds a way to leave the Manor, he will have no reason to return.

-

His opportunity comes late one night, while he sorts through various books in the Malfoy library. Yaxley had instructed Draco to rummage through the Malfoy collection and find all books mentioning Re’ems, per Voldemort’s orders.

He’s thumbing through a copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ when Dolohov comes into the library.  

“Darling Draco,” he coos mockingly, coming over to where Draco stands.

“Dolohov,” Draco says roughly, barely glancing at him.

“No need to be so discourteous,” the man says scathingly. Dolohov plants a thin hand at the back of Draco’s neck. “With your mother gone and your father, how shall I say this, hors de combat – ” he lets out a low laugh, “Well. You just can’t afford to be rude, can you?”

Dolohov takes a step closer, running his thumbnail along the skin of Draco’s neck. Draco steels himself, quashes the impulse to shiver.

“Living under the protection of your parents has made you soft, Draco,” Dolohov tuts lowly, his voice a gravelly rumble. In front of him, the words on the page seem to blur.

Dolohov’s thumb traces circles onto the topmost knob of Draco’s spine.

Draco closes _Fantastic Beasts_.

“I suppose you’ll be attempting to help me then,” he says tonelessly, staring straight ahead.

“Clever boy,” Dolohov says. “Now run along. The Dark Lord requests your presence in the dining hall. Matters of grave importance, I’m sure.”

Draco is quick to leave, tucking the book back into its right place and making to move around Dolohov. Even so, Dolohov manages to pinch Draco’s hip before he leaves the library. Humiliated, blood rushes to Draco’s cheeks, but Draco is careful to clear his mind before entering the dining room.

“My lord?”

The dining room is empty, save for the chair at the very end of the table and the one to its immediate right.

“Come, Draco. Sit.”

Draco sits, takes the seat to Voldemort’s left. Across from him is Professor Snape, dressed in his customary black robes. His facial expression is a stone slate.

In the silence of the room and in the presence of the Dark Lord, Draco’s irascibility melts into nothingness.

“I have made a decision,” Voldemort says thoughtfully. Nagini slithers off Voldemort’s shoulders, down the length of his right arm and onto the dining room table.

“My lord?” Snape tilts his head.

Draco fixes his gaze upon Snape’s hands, which are folded in front of him. They are calloused and worn, painfully thin and crooked.

“The boy will live with you, Severus. And he will assist you as you see fit. He has finished what I’ve required him for.”

The pad of Snape’s forefinger twitches, nail brushing against lacquered wood. Dull sunlight leaks through a window, dripping onto the dining table in patches.

“At Spinner’s End, my lord? I do not know if his presence at my home would be wise.”

“Draco?” Voldemort turns to him. Snape glances at Draco for a split second, before looking back at Voldemort.

“I’ll go wherever I am needed,” he says neutrally, carefully, prays that the salt and vitriol tucked into the corners of his mouth do not bleed into the lines of his lips.

Voldemort waves a hand carelessly. “Very well then. Severus, take him now. I will send for him when I need him.”

Snape dips his head, chin brushing against the starchy collar of his dark robes. “My lord.”

Voldemort faces Draco once more. For a moment, the room is silent save for the sound of scales on wood. Draco forces himself to breathe normally.

_The Re’em is native to the wilds of North America and the Far East. The Re’em is extremely rare, resembling giant oxen with a golden hide. Re’em blood gives immense strength to the drinker for a limited time._

Then, Voldemort waves his hand, a clear sign of dismissal.

“Draco,” Snape murmurs under his breath, lips barely moving as they walk through the gates of Malfoy Manor.

“You don’t have to protect me anymore.” Draco clamps down on the anger that threatens to rise in his chest.

Draco can feel the shadow of Snape’s hand as it curls around Draco’s shoulder, a sick caricature of sympathy.

“Draco, you must listen to me.”

They stride toward the end of the concrete path, the customary location to Apparate to and from this dreary landscape.

“It does not matter whether or not Narcissa is alive; I intend to fulfill my promise.”

They reach the end of the concrete path and Snape’s words hang in the air. Draco says nothing, voice caught in his throat. He stuffs his hands into his pocket, fingers wrapping instinctively around his wand.

Then, Snape Vanishes Draco’s bag, his hand clamping down on Draco’s shoulder.

A loud crack fills the air and Draco stumbles when they’ve reached Spinner’s End.

“I don’t like Side-Along,” Draco mumbles in response to the slight lift of Snape’s lips.

Spinner’s End is desolate and dreary. Brick houses line the dirty street, each one identical to the next. Paint peels off of off-white picket fences and the grass in every lawn is yellowed and wilted.

Footfalls echo down the road and back as Snape paces quickly and Draco follows. A breeze ruffles Draco’s hair, and he stuffs his hands further into his rumpled suit pockets.

Snape’s home is just another house in a line of houses, inconspicuous and discreet. The mailbox leans precariously, stuck into the atrophying lawn. Inside, the place smells musty, and a little of dirt.

Snape waves his wand and Draco’s bag reappears. The day catches up to him abruptly, and Draco suddenly feels a wave of exhaustion threatening to collapse on him as he follows Snape into a monochromatic kitchen.

“Is this where you stay when you’re not at the Manor?” Draco asks, voice dry.

Snape’s hair falls over the slope of his nose as he bends over a pewter cauldron. He’s brewing what looks like a murky Polyjuice potion. When he speaks, his voice is toneless.

“This was my childhood home. I’ve lived here since before I began to attend Hogwarts.”

Draco leans against the dusty countertop, allowing his spine to curve into something that isn’t a ramrod straight line. Briefly, Draco wonders how he could’ve known this man – learned from this man throughout his Hogwarts career – but never once thought about where he lived outside of school.

“I didn’t – ” Draco begins, but his voice is hoarse, cracking around the edges, and the words can’t seem to leave his mouth.

“You will be assisting me here, in Spinner’s End,” Snape continues, as if Draco hadn’t even spoken. “I’m sure the Dark Lord will continue delegating tasks to you, even under my care – ”

“And why is that?” Draco interrupts, annoyance coloring his tone. “Didn’t he send me away because he didn’t want me anymore?”

Snape turns his head, chin jutting over his shoulder, to look at Draco with disdain. “The Dark Lord has his reasons for everything.” His voice is bland. “But do be careful, Draco. Even within the recesses of my home, I shall expect you to maintain your composure. Do not – ” he cuts himself off, turning back to his small cauldron as if he’d already said too much.

Draco snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. Do not let them know, do not let them see, do not, do not – Snape doesn’t need to finish his sentence; his warning is clear.

The man drops what looks like lacewing into the cauldron. “Your room is the one down the hall, to the left. Peter will be here for breakfast tomorrow.”

Draco retreats, leaving Snape hunched over his bubbling cauldron.

As he walks to his room, Draco notes the fading wallpaper, clashing with a stained, beige carpet and tasteless popcorn ceiling. His room is neat but dusty, like everything else in Spinner’s End. Draco fingers his signet ring, recalling a conversation with Snape he’d had what seemed like a lifetime ago.

“I would go to extreme lengths to guarantee your survival,” Snape had said first, when he’d cornered Draco in the dark recesses of the corridor, outside Slughorn’s abysmal attempt at a party in the sixth year.

“Even sell me to the other side?” Draco had sneered, voice full of contempt. He had been so angry then, naïve and ignorant, always wearing his emotions proudly.

“Even so,” Snape had said, unwavering.

“Fuck,” Draco mutters now, struggling out of his trousers. The air is cloying and damp inside Snape’s home, and Draco can feel sweat collecting on his skin.

Even as he lies supine on top of his bed, Draco runs his fingers over the Malfoy crest embossed on his signet ring. It is cold to the touch.

His hands curl into fists, skin pulled tight over his knuckles, and red-hot anger drenches Draco's thoughts, filling him with the abrupt desire to hurt something, to tear flesh with glass and break bone with brick.

The saliva in his mouth coagulates into something thick and salty and Draco’s bones feel brittle, limbs too heavy to move. He thinks of his mother’s pale hands, curling around his shoulders.

Draco clenches his signet ring tightly in his palm.

The mattress is rough underneath him, scratches at the skin of his back. Draco stares at the popcorn ceiling. He makes a vow to himself, the first one in his whole life: he will not forget.

-

He wakes with dust underneath his tongue.

Draco’s face is suspiciously wet and he blames the humidity. He doesn’t try to remember his dreams.

Outside, gray clouds have collected in the sky, and Draco suspects it'll rain soon. Muted sunlight trickles into the room, onto faded wallpaper and on Draco’s pillow. For once, Draco has no reason to rouse early, what with no task waiting to be completed.

The warmth of his sheets make him dangerously drowsy. The house is silent and Draco slips in and out of consciousness, not sleeping, but not quite awake either. The world waits around him, quiet and still.

His cheek mashes up against his pillow and Draco feels a simmer of arousal unfurling in his belly. Still half-asleep, he twists his fingers in his pillowcase, drags his cheek across the coarse fabric to feel it rasp under his jaw.

A worn and threadbare memory comes to mind, of lips pressed against Draco's soft skin there, a breathy moan pirouetting across Draco's skin.

Draco cants his hips slowly into the mattress, eyes still firmly shut. He pulls himself into hand, plays a bit with the head of his cock before his prick fills out. With his other hand, Draco runs a hand down the planes of his chest, flicking at a soft nipple.

He lets out a low sigh, rivulets of arousal pooling in his belly – a teacup waiting to be dropped, an itch aching to be scratched, a piece of skin wanting to be bruised.

His fingers pull slowly at his prick slowly, languidly. Draco turns his head back into his pillow, thinks of familiar things.

Of Pansy's soft hands, the slow curl of Blaise's smile. Of sweaty palms pressed into his chest, underneath school robes, and wet kisses in the green dim of the boathouse.

It's this last memory that triggers a muscle in Draco's stomach to clench, and he comes slowly, orgasm rippling through his body like a current. His muscles uncoil and Draco resolutely does not think about how he wanked to memories of the Boy Who Lived, again.

He wonders what Snape’ll have for breakfast, then drifts back asleep.

-

When Draco awakens the second time that day, he's gasping for breath, chest heaving and tears streaming freely down his face.

He takes a minute to compose himself, steeling his nerves and calming himself down.

He's run through the steps of making Alihotsy Draught in his head, twice, before his hands stop shaking, before the sound of ringing screams have faded from his ears. He grimaces slightly, sits up on the bed and lets the sheets fall from his chest.

Hunching over his knees, Draco wipes the sleep from his eyes, watches the July sun stipple beige carpet. His muscles mumble in protest as he throws back the covers, swings his body over the edge of the bed and leaving the vestiges of warmth behind.

A shiver runs down Draco’s spine as he pads into the bathroom. He washes up quickly and slips into his rumpled suit.

Even as he steps into the kitchen, something prickles at the back of Draco’s neck, faint but foreboding.

In the kitchen, Snape is nowhere to be found. Instead, Peter Pettigrew stands over the stovetop, slowly stirring a viscous soup with his wand.

Suddenly noticing Draco's noiseless appearance, Pettigrew starts, “Mr. Malfoy.”

“Where's Snape,” says Draco.

“Out. I suspect he'll be back before you're due to leave, though.”

“Leave?” Draco echoes.

“Oh yes, of course. You were asleep when Nott came by last night – ”

Draco hadn’t even realized that someone else had been in the house but the shock is short-lived.

“You were out completely and Snape didn’t want to wake you, you see – ” In Draco’s peripheral vision, Pettigrew’s nose is hooked and his hair stringy, falling in curls around his ears. “But he had some instructions from the Dark Lord for Snape, involving you.”

Pettigrew ladles soup into a wooden bowl, silver hand glinting in the weak morning light.

Draco nods his thanks as the man pushes the bowl across the countertop, silent and lost in thought as he eats.

When Snape does return, Draco is sitting in the living room, poring over a book. An empty bowl sits by him on a stool.

“Severus,” Pettigrew scuttles into the living room, “I've made soup.” Draco does not look up.

“Thank you, Wormtail,” Snape says, “I will be eating after our guest departs,” his tone cold and clinical.

Pettigrew nods vigorously, steps furtively back into the kitchen. Draco waits until the footsteps fade before he speaks.

“Will I be alone in my task?”

“Not quite,” Snape says tartly. “The Dark Lord has hinted at other Death Eaters being there, but you will carry on nonetheless. You have your mission.” He sweeps into the kitchen. “Come, Draco,” floats into the living room.

Draco tosses his book to the side, pulling himself up.

“I've brewed Polyjuice for your use tonight. I doubt you'll be needing more than one dose but I've made enough for three.” Snape procures a tiny vial from the folds of his robes. “One hair, from an Edward Calgary.” The potion sizzles and turns a lukewarm ecru when Snape drops in the hair.  “Your task is to locate three Aurors in Hogsmeade. We suspect the Ministry assigned them to be guarding over Hogwarts and we must eliminate them,” Snape continues, toneless.

“Is he taking over Hogwarts then?” Draco mutters.

“Whether the Dark Lord wishes for a particular Auror to be disposed of or for the takeover of Hogwarts or for you to be out of his sight does not matter to me. I have my orders and am delegating you yours,” Snape replies.

Draco nods curtly, just wants to go back to sleep.

Snape places the Polyjuice into three glass vials. “The first vial will be consumed before you Apparate into Hogsmeade this evening. You might find that the Aurors have taken Polyjuice as well, but you'll have to confirm that on your own.” He offers them to Draco.

Draco scoops up the vials, tucks them into his pocket and charms them to stay there.

“The Dark Lord does not care how they die, so long as they do die. You are not to reveal your identity and you should be back before dawn, otherwise we will presume you are dead.”

Snape dips his head, and Draco thinks he sees a hint of emotion there, maybe a glimmer of sympathy, before it is gone.

-

There is a new shop past Zonko's called Diya's Emporium. It sells odd trinkets, and Draco supposes he was so caught up in his plan to kill Dumbledore last year he had never noticed its arrival.

Edward Calgary has thick shoulders and a thick face. Ice crunches underneath his feet when Draco walks and Draco clenches his gut; the sound is sickeningly familiar, akin to the sound of an animal crunching on bone.  

Hogsmeade is white this time of year, snow falling in blankets, smothering anything and everything. The cold is unfamiliar, sidling up under Draco’s robes and digging its fingers into his skin.

There is no one outside at this hour, most patrons safely ensconced in their respective bars. The dark shadows cast by Hogsmeade's buildings are achingly familiar. Briefly, Draco lets his mind flicker back to the Hogsmeade trips he had made with Pansy and Blaise. His eyes flit to the shadows again.

One of them shifts and a black figure materializes from the dark.

The man is dressed in a rich black cloak, hands disappearing into his pockets. When Draco meets his eye, his mouth is set into a familiarly cruel line, eyes dull as stones. Magic ripples around his figure. This is Nox, under the influence of a glamor. Draco dips his head slowly, cautiously, and Nox blinks in reply.

Draco moves first, forcing his muscles to become limp and relaxed. He takes on a loping stride that feels much more natural in Edward Calgary’s body than his own.

Draco reaches the dirt packed into Hogsmeade's main path and it is mercifully silent under his feet. He moves down the length of Hogsmeade and senses Nox following close behind.

There's a sudden crack and a man that wears Bulstrode's cold expression appears as Draco approaches Honeydukes. Draco breathes silently, forces his heart rate to slow.

“Right sight that was,” a woman says, and her hair is a dull brown. She stands just outside of Honeydukes, hands curled in her pockets. Draco recognizes her voice if not her appearance; this is Nymphadora Tonks, disowned by the Blacks and the Malfoys alike. She speaks to a taller woman.

“I reckon they won’t be leaving there soon,” Tonks’ companion agrees.

Panic bubbles up in Draco’s throat. The Aurors are too close to Honeydukes for the Death Eaters to do anything, and the third Auror is nowhere to be found. Draco glances behind him; Bulstrode and Nox have turned around, heading back up to Zonko’s. It won’t do him any good to Apparate out now, not without any attempt to capture the Aurors. He continues strolling, robes billowing as he passes Tonks and her companion.

Once Draco has passed the Post Office, he glances around him with his peripheral vision. The road is empty. He turns quickly around the Post Office building and casts a Disillusionment charm. Behind the buildings, the snow is untouched, and Draco sweeps his footsteps clean as he walks.

He’s doubled back, behind the line of shops, and stands behind Honeydukes now. When he ducks around the corner, he sees that Tonks and her companion have gone. In their place is a pair of footprints in the crisp snow, heading up toward Zonko’s. Draco’s throat feels impossibly dry, but he moves quickly to follow them, still hidden by his Disillusionment charm and still behind the Hogsmeade buildings. Nox and Bulstrode had Imperiused the two and walked them up to Zonko’s, no doubt there.

Once he’s reached the back door of Zonko’s, which is boarded up and nailed tightly shut, Draco darts around the corner of the shop to glance at the main street of Hogsmeade. Footprints in the snow snake around the empty building across the street. Idiots, Draco thinks, as he sweeps the footprints away with his wand. As he approaches the building, he removes his Disillusionment charm; if Nox or Bulstrode were to see ripples of magic in the air, they would kill him without hesitation.

Snape’s words ring in his head, _“Do not – ”_

He’s turning around the empty building when a chill runs down his spine. He pauses. Ahead of him are Tonks and her companion, walking toward a thatch of trees a little further way on. Nox and Bulstrode most likely wait in the shadows of the trees and expect Draco to follow them.

But the way Tonks walks sends a ripple of doubt through Draco’s mind. Under the influence of the Imperius curse, Draco has seen victims walk nearly all the same way: straight-backed and rigid. It’s a characteristic Draco’s read about, in some of Father’s books in the Malfoy Manor library. Tonks walks in a way that seems a bit off, a little bit behind her companion and her legs willowy –

Something rustles behind Draco, and his pulse quickens under his skin. _Do not –_

He turns, but there’s nothing there besides snow. In front of him, Bulstrode has emerged from the thicket of trees, wand raised. Blood rushes to Draco’s head and he lashes out, petrification curse on the same breath.

Light flashes from his wand at the same moment Tonks spins and hits Bulstrode with a shout of _Locomotor Mortis_. Tonks’ wand flies out of reach – Bulstrode managed to disarm her before collapsing to the ground.

Draco spins behind him, and sees a ripple in the air, a Disillusionment charm refracting light. His breath hitches and there is a sudden moment where everything is still.

Then light flashes from where the third Auror hides under their Disillusionment charm; Draco flies backward with the strength of the Expulso Curse, body slamming into the empty building behind him. His heart lurches into his stomach, has but a second to blink and then hears, “ _Petrificus totalus_!”

His body freezes, wand falling from his hand. He sees Tonks kneeling in the snow, having successfully dodged Draco’s petrification curse.

“There’s another one,” she shouts to the third Auror, “In the trees!”

Tonks’ companion lies still on the snow, body limp and eyes glassy.

Bulstrode is kneeling on the ground, waves his wand in the direction of the third Auror, but misses by at least a yard, green sparks hitting the snow uselessly. Nox most likely remains hidden in the safety of the trees, fearing defeat but not risking escape.

“ _Confringo_!” Bulstrode shouts, and orange light bursts from his wand, hitting the snow in front of the third Auror with a flame-like explosion.

“Dawlish!” Draco thinks he hears Tonks scream, but he can’t be sure.

A flash of gold light emerges from the trees, and fiendfyre erupts.

The third Auror, Dawlish, shouts “ _Stupefy_ ,” and Bulstrode crumples to the ground. Tonks has scooped up her wand, and the two of them advance toward Nox. Dawlish’s Disillusionment charm has fallen as he approaches the thicket of trees.

Draco waits.

Tonks and Dawlish have split up, each one approaching the shadows of the trees from one side. Fiendfyre materializes in front of Tonks in the shape of a vampire, fangs reaching for her chest. Dawlish lashes the air with his wand, but Nox remains hidden within the recesses of the trees.

“Dawlish!” Tonks struggles to put out the Fiendfyre, “Where’s Proudfoot?”

A chill erupts under Draco’s skin. There is a fourth. Nox knows his limits, and they do not extend to defeating three Aurors.

Draco casts the counter-curse of Petrificus totalus nonverbally, and sucks in a mouthful of air as he feels control returning to his limbs. _Do not let them –_

“Shite,” Tonks cries out, the Fiendfyre scorching her robes. She falls back, flames nipping at her heels. Nox has emerged from the trees now, black shadows swamping his figure like a cloak. Bright light flashes from his wand as he duels Dawlish.

Even from this distance, Draco can see the concentration has furrowed Nox’s face into a sharp scowl. Discreetly, he crawls his hand across the icy snow, reaching for his wand – _do not let them –_

_“Accio wand!”_

Draco’s wand flies out into the grasp of another Auror, presumably Proudfoot. “ _Stupefy_!” Proudfoot yells, and her stunning charm hits Draco square in the chest. Sudden pain blooms in his chest as he falls backward, breath knocked out of him. His back slams back into the dilapidated building behind him, heart racing, blood pounding – he can’t –

“Dawlish!” Proudfoot bellows, and Dawlish ducks as Proudfoot sends a curse over his head, a jet of black-blue light. Nox’s eyes widen and the spell hits nothing but air as Nox Disapparates on the spot, disappearing in a wisp of dark shadows.

Can’t breathe –

Tonks has eliminated the Fiendfyre, and she’s rejoined her fellow Aurors. Draco remembers seeing her standing over him, eyes wide and curious, before she waves her wand – do not do not _do not_ – and everything goes black.

-

His bones feel like bricks and his head throbs. It is dark, wherever he is, and he can’t seem to move his limbs.

“Kingsley says to wait. Bulstrode was on Polyjuice potion and it’s likely this one is as well.”

Voices fill the room and the noise is jarringly loud.

“You reckon they’ll send him to Azkaban?”

An invisible hand has taken hold of Draco’s guts, squeezes his intestines and turns his stomach inside out. His eyelids are as heavy and he can hardly think.

_Plangentine is a rare fruit that ripens in the winter. It grows under peculiar conditions, and only in the presence of magic. It is gathered in the evening and must be boiled until soft to be used in potions. Plangentine has the quality of a raw persimmon, firm to the touch and slightly tart._

“Bulstrode? He’s dead. Burned in the Fiendfyre before Tonks could stop it.”

Draco groans and everything fades back to black.

-

“It’s Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

Draco shouldn’t have let them – he can’t –

“You sure? Thought he was holed up in his Manor.”

_Do not –_

Someone snorts. “You-Know-Who probably got sick of his skinny arse and kicked him out.”

“Will the Ministry take him then?” a third voice chimes in.

_Do not let them –_

“’Course. Where else would he go?”

The second voice titters. “Azkaban of course.”

-

“ _Renerverate._ _”_

Draco’s head still feels swollen, and his brain pounds in its cavity. His hands and feet are cuffed but before he can register the rest of his surroundings, there are two fingers pinching his nose shut. His mouth is pulled open and cold liquid – he can only assume it is Veritaserum – is forced down his throat.

The cool liquid soothes his parched throat on the way down. Draco forces himself to steady his breath, control his heart rate.

_When eaten in its raw form, consumption will replenish the user’s health. When boiled, plangentine takes on the quality of ripe persimmon, tender and fleshy. When used in potions, it allows the user to replenish energy and health, even when used in small portions._

When his pulse has settled, Draco blinks blearily. He expected a courtroom of some sort, presumably in the Ministry of Magic, and the Wizengamot in front of him in their entirety. Instead, he is in a dilapidated room, most likely at one of the Order’s safehouses. How could he be here? He was so careful, so fucking deliberate; it would’ve been best if he had not been captured, but even then, Draco calculated that he’d be in the Ministry of Magic – he shouldn’t be here, he should have –

Professor McGonagall sits in front of him, on a wooden stool chair and a man Draco recognizes as Kingsley Shacklebolt stands behind her. Something like surprise prickles in his chest. Draco’s gaze is drawn to the deep purples of Shacklebolt’s robes.

“Draco,” McGonagall says. Her eyes are piercing and there is not an ounce of fear in them. He should not be here –

“Do you know who I am?”

“Minerva McGonagall,” the words fall from his mouth without effort, no louder than a whisper.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

_Do not let them –_

“What were you doing in Hogsmeade?”

“Trying to kill the Aurors stationed there.”

McGonagall’s face pinches.

“Why did you let yourself become captured?” Shacklebolt interjects.

Draco snaps, “It was a calculated risk.”

“Calculated risk?” Kingsley demands, but McGonagall speaks over him.

“Who were the other Death Eaters with you?”

“Just Nox and Bulstrode,” Draco says tonelessly.

They bombard him with inquiries. Why did you go with the Death Eaters there? Who gave you the Polyjuice potion? Why did Voldemort want to kill those specific Aurors?

“Why am I still alive?” he interrupts.

At this, McGonagall hesitates, and then fixes her gaze upon Draco. “You are alive, Mr. Malfoy, because Albus Dumbledore wished for you to be so.”

Draco’s palpitating heart sinks into his stomach, curdles into something acerbic around the edges. He shouldn’t even be here – he shouldn’t have let –

“What does Dumbledore have to do with any of this?” he bites out instead.

“Professor Dumbledore left a will,” McGonagall says, and her lips are thin. “And you were included in it. His explicit wishes were, if you were ever to become captured by our side – ”

The way she says ‘our side’ curls in Draco’s gut, leaves his head pounding. He doesn’t want to listen to what she has to say; he shouldn’t even be here –

“That you were to be offered, and I quote, a second chance.”

Draco opens his mouth but McGonagall beats him to it.

“He wanted to offer you a place on our side, had we ever been given the opportunity.”

“He predicted that I’d be captured?” Draco asks incredulously.

Shacklebolt steps toward Draco, wand in hand, “Keep in mind, Malfoy, that if you were any other Death Eater, your bones would be smoking in the Department of Mysteries right now,” he begins, but McGonagall eases him by waving a hand.

“He predicted that you would have the ability to switch sides.”

“Like Snape supposedly did,” Draco sneers and McGonagall’s mouth twists into something ugly and sour. She breathes through her nose, nostrils flaring. _Don’t let them see –_

“Snape was the one who killed Dumbledore, not you,” she reminds him and inwardly, he admires her patience.

“And you believe him,” Draco says tonelessly. At first, he feels a wave of revulsion at the thought of the old man trying to predict him, read his mind and predict his actions.

A small voice pipes in from the back of Draco’s head. You chose to become a prisoner rather than return to the Manor, it tells him. Because he killed my mother, Draco tells it, and then quashes it.

“Draco, what do you want?” McGonagall interrupts his thoughts, and Draco thinks of the apathy in his father’s eyes, the way Voldemort had uttered the Killing Curse so gently. Anger floods his veins suddenly, and Draco has to stomp on it, ruthlessly. Ire still simmers like a ghost, in his gut, deep in his bones. He breathes slowly, lets the silence stretch in time until it hangs heavy in the air.

_Cosmic strings are topological defects in the fabric of the universe, one-dimensional fault lines between different regions of space._

His silence answers her, and he stares at nothing in particular. He shifts in his chair, and the floor underneath him squeaks.

“Dumbledore has left you a place in the Order,” McGonagall begins again, but Draco is watching Shacklebolt. “You would participate as a spy. As we know you are an accomplished Occulumens, it would not be impossible for you to hide these memories – ”

_The formation of cosmic strings is somewhat analogous to the cracks that form when water freezes into ice. The phase transitions leading to the production of cosmic strings are likely to have occurred during the earliest moments of the universe's evolution._

Shacklebolt shifts uncomfortably and Draco finds a little twinge of pleasure at this.

“Replace Snape then,” Draco remarks, “Seeing as you lost him to the Dark Side for good. What makes you think I won’t do the same?”

McGonagall fixes Draco with a hard stare. “Kingsley, I believe I can handle this from here.”

“Minerva – ” he begins, but quiets at her calm gaze. He exits the room without further comment, and Draco watches the folds of his robes flutter as he goes. Professor McGonagall waits until his footsteps fade before she resumes speaking.

_These strings may weave throughout the entire universe; they are thinner than an atom and are under immense pressure._

“A body was found yesterday, just outside of Wiltshire,” she begins and Draco feels the blood drain from his face. “We’ve identified it as Narcissa Malfoy, and – ” The sound of footfalls thump up the stairs, but Draco pays it no mind. _Do not let them_ –

“And you think that her death will what? Spur me to join Saint Potter in his quest to defeat the Dark Lord? I won’t join you,” Draco says coolly, ignores the resentment bubbling in his gut, threating to spill into every crevice of his body.

_Naturally, this means they'd pack quite a gravitational pull on anything that passes near them, enabling objects attached to a cosmic string to travel at incredible speeds and benefit from time dilation._

The door slams open.

“Sorry Professor,” Potter says, panting. “I heard Malfoy talking about me and couldn’t help but barge in,” he says, voice hinting toward sarcasm. Weasel and Granger appear behind him. Draco’s throat shrivels into a caustic taste in the back of his mouth.

“Mr. Potter – ” McGonagall begins to rise.

“Professor, we tried to stop him, but when he heard Malfoy was here – ” Granger starts but Draco can’t find the energy within himself to listen to her speak.

The Boy Who Lived stands in the tilted doorway, hair rumpled and robes wrinkly. His eyes are bright and he looks unchanged from when Draco saw him a few months ago. Draco thinks of sweaty, fumbling hands, swapping wet kisses in the light of the damp boathouse at Hogwarts for a brief moment, before pulling his mental wards around him out of habit, dampening his thoughts into something much less precarious.

“Looking a bit off there, Malfoy,” Potter says quietly.

“Fuck off,” he says and Potter has the temerity to laugh, throws his head back to reveal the pale column of his throat. A keen bitterness contracts in Draco’s gut, ugly and cold.

“I must insist,” McGonagall is speaking to Hermione, “I prefer to conduct this in the privacy of this room, Miss Granger. I am sure Potter will be able to interrogate Malfoy as much as he wishes as soon as I have finished.” Her voice is shrill and Draco’s head begins to ache again. The edges of Draco’s vision tilt and Draco can barely think over the squeezing of his chest.

Potter steps forward. “Why are you here,” he says lowly, and Draco hates the fact that he’s sitting down.

_These strings expanded right along with the universe, ultimately stretching across the entire known universe in a more or less straight line, or forming massive rings many thousands of times bigger than our galaxy._

He’s forced to lift his head to meet Potter’s heavy gaze.

“Why are _you_ here?” Draco’s words come out taunting, and the rhythm of their conversation brings back memories of a time when things were much simpler, very long ago. “Shouldn’t you be out saving the world?”

Potter shrugs. “I’ve got other things to do as well. Fleur and Bill are getting married soon.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “You think this safehouse is secure?” he hisses hotly.

A frown tugs at Potter’s lips. “You aren’t supposed to know that this is – ”

“Your Ministry is corrupt, Potter,” Draco feels a bit of relish knowing that this next bit of information will be a shock to the Order. “It’ll collapse within a fortnight and the Minister of Magic will be as dead as a doornail,” he spits.

Potter’s eyes are livid. “You can’t possibly – ”

“Harry,” Granger hisses, dragging him by the arm. It seems as though the conversation between Professor McGonagall and Granger have ended.

“Hang on,” Potter interrupts, but the witch is adamant, dragging him down the stairs, her voice carrying all the while.

“Now,” McGonagall takes her seat again, unperturbed. “Where were we?”

“I believe I was declining your offer,” Draco says coldly, pride pooling under his tongue.

McGonagall stares at him over her spectacles. “Professor Dumbledore had thought you might’ve been.”

_Do not let them know –_

“I will give you the course of a week to make up your mind,” she says, her mouth molded into a tight frown. She is desperate. “Until then, you’ll be placed under the protection of the Ministry.” She begins to speak about the conditions under which he’ll be kept, rules under which he’ll be regulated, and he drowns her out with the anger rushing through his ears.

_By maneuvering two cosmic strings close together, it is theoretically possible to create a whole array of time-like curves. Interactions can create fields of closed timelike curves permitting time travel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a physicist or a scientist, so I apologize for any mistakes or inconsistencies behind the science in this work. Also, this is unbeta'ed so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> The excerpts that Draco reflects upon regarding time travel and cosmic strings can be found [here](http://www.andersoninstitute.com/cosmic-strings.html).


	2. two

 

The first thing he notices is the cold.

It is a jarring and bone-chilling cold. Draco clamps his jaws together, molars grinding against each other in an effort not to let his teeth clack in the chill. It seeps into his skin and rattles his bones, shakes him to the very core. He wonders if it is this cold in Azkaban.

The second thing he notices is the ring of bruises around his wrists.

They are dark and mottled, varying from light green to sickly purple. Draco examines them with a clinical fascination, thinks he must have gotten them after the Ministry had accepted him.

The chamber in which the Ministry has housed him is bleak, a circular room with no windows and only a single door, which is bolted magically and crackling with energy. The ceiling is unusually high, and there is a single fluorescent light at the very top.

There is a single scratch mark on the white wall where Draco has marked the end of his first day with a blunt nail, dragging the paint off in flakes. Other than this, the only other measure of time is a plate with two slabs of plain bread, a plastic cup of jam and two slices of ham that magically appear in his room every eight hours or so.

He feels oddly disconnected without his wand, as if he is missing a hand or a limb. He can still feel magic there, just out of reach. Perhaps he will attempt nonverbal spells when his energy has returned.

The first day is blissfully quiet, minutes stretching thin and bleeding into hours, time governed only by the appearance of food. Draco allows his mind to meander. There is a tangle of thoughts in his head, each one as ugly and knotted as the last.

He knows that Kingsley Shacklebolt – for all of his rage and temper – is cunning. There is no doubt in Draco’s mind that Shacklebolt would be capable of hunting Draco down, of forcing his hand into working with the Order –

Regardless of which side will win this seemingly endless war, Draco knows he’ll be left to pick up the remnants of the side he will choose; there will be reparations no matter the outcome.

This is Draco’s last fractured thought before he slips into sleep.

-

“Well. This isn’t what we expected, is it Bexley?”

The second man chuckles. “Not exactly.”

Two men have come into the prisoner's room. Draco doesn’t know what time they arrive, only that they come with angry glints in their eyes and their fists tight.

“When we first heard the Ministry was keeping a Death Eater, I thought it’d be good of us to drop by. Pay our respects you know.”

The two men approach Draco, and he recognizes the venom in their voices immediately. Here are two victims of the Wizarding War; unfortunate really, their losses. Most likely family or close friends. How helpful, that the Ministry has provided a Death Eater – drugged up and defenseless – as an anger outlet. Draco would sneer if he had the energy.

“Easy enough to get inside, pretty bloody hard to get out though.” The first man nods toward the crack in the door. “Unless you leave it open, of course.”

His companion, Bexley, speaks. “Figured we’d get Nox, or maybe good ol’ Dolohov. Instead we got the Malfoy,” he hisses, stooping over to speak into Draco’s ear. His breath is hot on Draco’s cheek, and his fist grabs Draco’s shoulder tightly. Draco fights the urge to tighten his muscles, forces his body to relax. “Did your Daddy ever tell you what his Death Eater pals did to my brother’s wife? Huh?”

The other man sneers.

Bexley’s voice is a low whisper, but the two men’s combined rage fills the air like a storm. “They hung her upside down and dragged her nails off her fingers with pliers.”

Draco can’t suppress the shiver that runs down his spine, the overwhelming urge to _run_ , to leave this place and get the fuck out while the door is still open – _do not let them – do not do not do_ **_not_ ** _–_

“She screamed like a banshee for two whole days, blood dripping from her hands and her toes. And you know what they made my brother do?”

Draco can’t move, can’t scream –

Bexley digs both hands into Draco’s shirt, shakes him violently. “Do you know what they did?” he repeats. When he speaks his voice is a dangerous growl. “They tied him down and made him _watch_. They dropped all kinds of disgusting creatures on her for fun. Stuck flesh-eating slugs onto her skin and didn’t even flinch. House smelled like burnt flesh for weeks afterward. You know why? Because she was _Muggleborn_ ,” Bexley whispers. “Now Marcus here,” he jerks his head to his companion. “Marcus and I thought you wouldn’t have known that. Did you know that?”

Draco jerks his head.

Bexley smiles, his teeth crooked and lips contorted. Marcus lands a solid kick into Draco’s gut, right above his hip. Pain blossoms but Draco clenches his teeth, wills himself not to show anything.

“Probably because he was too busy getting cock up his arse by his Death Eater pals to listen,” Marcus sneers.

“Is that right?” Bexley feigns innocence, and Draco feels his muscles coiling, anger itching under his skin. Bexley leans into Draco’s face, spit collecting at the corner of his mouth. “Did you take Daddy’s prick too? Bet you liked it up your little white bum, didn’t ya?”

“Get the _fuck_ out of my face,” Draco says quietly, the first words he’s uttered since the men entered the room.

“Thinking of Daddy gets you excited, don’t it?” Marcus jeers. Draco thinks of the glassy stare of Lucius Malfoy, how he’d carefully walked over his dead wife’s body without a backwards glance. _Don’t let them –_

“I bet – ”

Draco never finds out what Bexley would’ve bet, because he’s rammed his forehead into Bexley’s nose, feels blood erupting over his face.

Bexley lashes out reflexively, fist meeting Malfoy’s chest with a solid thump, and Marcus has his wand out in a flash. Red light fills the empty room and Draco feels hot pain in his stomach, burgeoning rapidly. He tries to move his limbs but they’re slow and sluggish still.

The room begins to blur and Bexley’s blood-covered grimace is hazy.

“You little fucker,” he thinks Marcus says, but Draco can’t be sure. He feels Marcus’ boot connecting with his gut, over and over, and over again. Draco’s lungs wheeze with effort.

“Fucking Death Eater scum,” is the last thing he hears before the world spins into dark.

-

When Draco wakes again, his stomach aches and there are bruises on his chest.

_Fucking Death Eater scum._

The world is spinning around him. It’s as if he’s walking a tightrope, Dark and Light sides on either side of the rope, and he dangles precariously on one side before regaining his balance, then leaning to the other. The world is no longer split into Dark and Light, Good and Bad; it is split into win or lose, live or die. He tightens his grip on his signet ring.

The rest of his week at the Ministry passes by in a haze of artificially flavored strawberry jam and scratches on the white wall. There are seven long marks before the door swings open a second time, and Minerva McGonagall walks through.

The Ministry is empty – after hours, Draco assumes – when they leave in a flurry of green flames. Draco’s mouth is parched, and his throat feels like it’s full of sandpaper. Professor McGonagall’s wand presses into the small of his back the whole time.

_Fucking Death Eater scum –_

Draco combs his hand through his hair, feels flakes of blood dried in his roots. The world feels disjointed.

They Apparate back to the same safehouse he had been detained in when he first woke, a rickety place with creaky floors and a leaking roof.

“Why was Potter here the first night?” Draco asks, and he winces at how raspy his voice sounds.

McGonagall gives him a long look.

“Right,” he mumbles. Draco plods up the stairs and into the room where he was just over a week ago, sits himself in the chair. His head pounds in its cavity and Draco feels weak. A voice in the back of his head worries over how complacent he is, but he brushes it off. McGonagall waves her wand and the chains pooled at the base of the chair wrap around his wrists and ankles. She purses her lips.

“I understand your perspective on this matter, Draco,” she says, her voice steady. “But I trust – ” Her breath hitches. “I trusted Dumbledore with my life. He believed in you, and so,” her eyes meet Draco’s. “I do as well. If you choose to work with the Order, you will be doing so in the utmost security. Only I, and if necessary, a few select others will know that you are working with us. Keep in mind, however, if you accept, that your betrayal will not be taken lightly,” the threat dances on McGonagall’s tongue.

When Draco speaks, his voice is a low drawl. “And if I don’t?”

“We will return you to the Ministry, and they will do with you what they see fit.”

Draco’s thoughts cloud. The Ministry will be overrun soon, ensuring him a return to the Dark Side. From there, it would plausible to work his way inside out, regain the trust of the Dark Lord and then release his anger from within the Manor.

And if he took membership of the Order, even if the Dark Side won, Draco is confident in enough in his Occulumency to think that he’d be able to convince Voldemort of his loyalties. His fingers clench around the cold metal of his ring.

_Do not let them –_

He opens his mouth when the door slams open.

“Professor,” Potter is in dress robes, glasses slightly awry.

“Always interrupting me, Potter,” Draco mutters under his breath.

“Potter, what is the meaning – ”

“He knew,” Potter pants. He turns to Draco. “You knew the Ministry was going to fall.”

“And is Rufus Scrimgeour dead?” Draco inquires.

McGonagall turns to Potter, pale as parchment. His nod is slow. “Shacklebolt sent us a Patronus at the wedding. There’re Death Eaters at the Burrow now and Ron and Hermione have just gone to Grimmauld Place.”

_Fucking Death Eater scum._

The two of them turn to face Draco. When McGonagall speaks, her voice wavers slightly.

“What will your answer be, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco looks at Potter. His eyes are wide and a dark mottled green. Draco thinks of his hands, hot under Draco’s robes. Then he rubs the signet ring on his middle finger, thinks of Dumbledore’s unwavering stare at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Don’t let them know.  Don’t let them see.

He looks back at McGonagall and nods.

Draco Malfoy wants to live.

-

Regulus Black’s room is startlingly familiar, it’s silver and emerald tapestries so similar to the ones in the Slytherin common room, Draco has to look twice at them. Regulus’s bed is still made, dust collecting on top of the sheets. An old copy of the Daily Prophet crumples in Draco’s hand, as he sits in a high-backed chair. A moving portrait of his own face stares back at him, taken after Bexley and Marcus had paid him a visit in the Ministry. His hair is matted with blood and his lip is split. _Death Eater Caught_ , reads the bold headline. Draco tosses the magazine onto the floor, not wanting to read another word.

He runs a hand through his hair, blood still flaking from his roots. He needs a shower.

When he stands, the muscles in his stomach scream, but he manages to stumble into the upstairs bathroom, but not before almost bumping into Granger.

“Shit,” Draco mumbles and she lets out a squeak.

“Sorry,” she says automatically, then realizes who she’s talking to. “Oh.”

Pink rises to her cheeks. “McGonagall told me that, uh, well,” she trails off, at a loss for words. She clears her throat again, and tries again, “She wanted me to tell you that we’ve started planning your escape. It has to be plausible of course, but I’m sure McGonagall will have thought of something. Everyone thinks you’re still in the Ministry.”

Draco nods curtly. He just wants a bloody shower.

“Malfoy,” Granger begins, “Harry told us everything.” Her voice is detached and clinical.

“I’m sure he did,” Draco says gruffly. She continues as if he hadn’t spoken, “About the Astronomy Tower and all, and we saw your – your Mum – ”

“Yes, I expect you did,” Draco says, breathing evenly, “I heard it was all over the Prophet. Can I have a go at the shower now?”

She purses her lips, still in the doorway to the bathroom. Five years of hate, five years of their time together at Hogwarts is written in the lines of her mouth, set in the flint of her gaze.

“I’m not apologizing for anything,” Draco says. The pride in his belly is curled tight.

“I expected you wouldn’t,” she says primly. “But I wanted to let you know that Harry tried explaining it to us, and really, with everything you had to – ”

_Fucking Death Eater scum –_

Draco wants to live, pride be damned.

“I understand your overwhelming need to make everything well and right in the world, Granger, but you’re not getting an apology from me and I don’t expect one from you,” he says bluntly.

She lets out a huff of air, _you’re still a spoiled, prejudiced arsehole_ tucked in the lines of her arms as she crosses them. “Well, then.” She steps out of the way. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

-

August comes and goes in a flurry of events, all of which occur on the second floor of 12 Grimmauld Place: Draco Malfoy bumps into a wrinkly house-elf, who bows until his nose touches his toes – “Master Malfoy,” he’d said, and something curdled in Draco’s stomach; he finds a room full of parchments and books hides behind Regulus Black’s closet, door cleverly hidden in the cracks in the slats of the wall; Draco spends all of his days in this room, nose pressed to paper, eyes weary and red as he burns candlelight long into the night; Kreacher has taken a liking to Draco and brings him sandwiches at mealtimes; Draco does not leave Regulus Black’s room.

McGonagall gives Draco back his wand the first night, then continues poking her head into the room occasionally after that, updating him, but for the most part, Draco is blissfully alone. The Golden Trio have gone off in preparation for a raid of some sort, leaving Draco to rummage through the literature collection belonging to Regulus Black.

One month has passed and Draco has spoken less than a handful of words to McGonagall, seen no one but Kreacher and himself in the mirror.

-

Candlelight flickers in the dark, throwing shadows across the wooden dining room table in 12 Grimmauld Place. Draco sits across from Professor McGonagall and next to Harry Potter, his first interaction with anyone besides Kreacher and McGonagall since that night at the safehouse. It feels as though he's going through the motions.

“The safehouse I brought you to before, that’s where you’ll go to meet with one of the Order; only Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ms. Granger and myself know where it is, and the fire connects directly to the one in my home,” McGonagall says, her voice sharp as a knife. “As soon as we’ve established a means for your escape, I suspect it’ll be broadcasted all over the news. I trust your judgment, Mr. Malfoy. You will be expected to divulge information – select information, I may add – to the enemy and in turn, you shall report back to us at least once a fortnight, at the aforementioned safehouse.

“Your return to the Dark Side may not be well received, but I suspect that is a problem you’ll be able to handle.” McGonagall’s eyes are quick. Draco keeps his hands on the table, thumb rasping against a rough patch of wood.

“You really think I’ll be able to pull all of this off,” Draco’s eyes narrow.

“You were rather clever enough at Hogwarts, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall says sternly. “I don’t expect you’ve changed that drastically since then. I expect that’ll be all for now.” She pauses for a moment and the room is silent. “I will check back in with you before the end of the week. I’m sure Potter will be able to show you to your room,” she says, sweeping her cloak off the table.

Draco opens his mouth, but Potter speaks instead.

“Travel safe, Professor,” he says, and she nods to her former students before stepping from the room.

“Come on then,” Potter says.

Grimmauld Place is eerily quiet. It is the silence that engenders it; suddenly the night’s quiet supplications cause Draco to realize how dangerous the game that he’s playing is. Rivulets of sweat trickle down Draco’s back; there’s an itch under his skin and he can't concentrate.

“Ron and Hermione are already sleeping,” Potter says softly, as they ascend the stairs. “We’re off to the Ministry tomorrow.”

Draco’s mouth pulls into a frown. “The Ministry? What for?”

Potter hesitates.

“How am I supposed to be a proper spy when you lot won’t tell me anything?” Draco sneers.

“Shove off,” Potter says, and they step into Regulus’s bedroom. “Dolores Umbridge has – has something we need to retrieve.”

“Are you going to leave now?” Draco asks, as Potter hangs in the doorway. Potter’s mouth is halfway open, as if to say something stupid. He closes his mouth, then opens it again. In the back of Draco’s mind, he registers that this is the first time he’s been alone in a room with Potter since their time at Hogwarts.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Potter asks finally, and the question is simple, hangs between them like an olive branch. Draco thinks of all the things he could say, all the things Potter would believe.

“You don’t,” Draco says finally, mouth curved into a dangerous smile.

Potter lets out an angry, incredulous sound, striding into Regulus’s room, “You fucker,” as he grabs onto the lapels of Draco’s robes, and his eyes are much too bright, much too close –

Potter’s hands are in Draco’s robes, his lips pressing against Draco’s mouth and all Draco can hear is the thumping of his heart as it reams a cavity into his chest.

“I still hate you,” Draco manages to mumble, blood rushing through his veins like the floodgates that hold his pulse back have been opened.

“I know you do,” Potter gasps, and he runs his hands down the planes of Draco’s chest, tugging roughly at his robes.

Their clothes hit the floor and they fall onto Regulus's bed in a cloud of dust. Draco removes the dust with a quick nonverbal, magic simmering just beyond his touch.

Potter's fingers tangle in Draco's hair, nails scraping his scalp and tongue hot in Draco's mouth.

Draco runs his hands over Potter's smooth skin, feels the bumps of his hipbones and the hollow of his chest, where his heart beats fast under Draco's touch.

Potter jerks his hips against Draco’s thigh, presses his prick insistently against Draco until all he can feel is the slick of skin against skin. This is not a quick encounter in a shaded corridor in Hogwarts; they're in the middle of a war and it feels _wrong –_ Draco is a Death Eater and Potter is The Chosen One – yet their breaths still kiss the same stale air and their blood still runs quick through their veins.

_Do not –_

“I can’t – I don’t trust you – ” Potter gasps and Draco feels a bit like King Aegeus, supposes Potter would be the sea, tantalizingly sweet. Draco wants to delve into the waters, escape from the horrors ashore. Suddenly, a low growl rumbles in Draco's chest and Potter is right there, right fucking _there_ –

“I know,” Draco bites out roughly.

Potter is real and tangible, living and breathing flesh, blood red-hot in his body, and Draco wants him so badly it feels like his lungs have collapsed into a gaping hole in his chest; he can feel the throbbing burn between his legs.

There's an abrupt ache filling every fiber of his being, every muscle in his body screaming for one thing – someone is speaking, they are chanting and they are yelling – _do not do_ **_not_ ** _–_

“Malfoy,” Potter says, and his voice is trembling, fluttering as lightly as a leaf on a somnolent autumn afternoon, crisp but delicate.

Draco's tongue traces a wet trail up Potter's chest, feels the smooth skin between the bumps of his ribs.

“Malfoy,” he says and he sounds desperate, voice cracking around the edges.

_Do not let them –_

Potter's mouth flutters against Draco's skin. “Malfoy,” Potter breathes and desire floods Draco's cheeks. Potter's cock is hot, hard and heavy against Draco's thigh. Draco’s hands fumble in the dark, then push into Potter roughly, deft fingers cool and slick inside his body.

Regulus Black’s sheets are cold underneath Draco’s knees, molding tenderly around the aches and bruises of Draco’s legs as he kneels around Potter, pale thighs a milky bracket around the shape of Potter’s body.

Draco rocks Potter urgently into the mattress, sharp elbows catching on the edges of a pillowcase.

Wet teeth press a sloppy kiss onto the corner of Draco’s mouth, fingers slipping through his hair, and Draco’s hips stutter one final time before he comes with a gasp.

And finally Potter whimpers so softly that Draco can barely hear it as Potter spills into Draco’s warm hand, comes and comes and comes.

-

Granger and Weasley leave under the effects of a Polyjuice potion, and without the trio in the house, it is quiet once more.

An hour or so has passed. Draco’s in the living room when he hears the faint, familiar pop of someone Apparating onto the front step. Draco lowers the book in his lap, suddenly alert. There comes a loud bellow, “Shit!” in a rumbling baritone that sends a shiver down Draco’s spine. Time slows down and the nanoseconds drag into hours as Draco is overcome with a sense of premonition.

“Fucking hell,” wafts in from the hallway of 12 Grimmauld Place. Draco’s thoughts reel. He can stay and attempt to conceal himself, or rush the plan McGonagall had so painstakingly put together –

Draco wants to live.

“Yaxley? Is that you?” Draco calls out, his voice clear and steady, belying the quick beat of his heart. It’s too fast, everything is happening right now and Draco can’t stop it, he can only –

“Who the fuck is that? I’ll fucking – ”

Yaxley appears in the doorway to the living room, robes rumpled and wand pointing directly at Draco’s chest.

 _Fucking Death Eater scum_.

“Going to kill me? Maybe it’ll get something out of your system,” Draco sneers, and it feels so fucking _easy_ –

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Yaxley splutters and Draco raises an eyebrow. His hands are steady and he brushes his book to the side. His heart hammers in his chest and something cold sluices down Draco’s spine, solidifying his bones into ice.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Grabbed onto that Mudblood bitch while she was Apparating here,” Yaxley squints. “How do I know you’re Malfoy? Stand up, stand up!”

Draco rises slowly and Yaxley’s wand is fixed on a small spot on Draco’s chest. Do not –

Draco meets Yaxley’s gaze, unwavering, and says, “On the night of Dumbledore’s death, you blasted Fenrir Greyback aside when I was tasked to kill Dumbledore, but let Snape finish the deed. I saw Greyback the night after that, when he was returning to the Manor and he had a limp in his left leg.”

Yaxley’s wand lowers, but still points to Draco. Something builds into Draco’s gut. He yanks up his left sleeve, Dark Mark jet-black and writhing. “Enough proof for you?”

“What are you doing here?” Yaxley repeats, his voice gravelly. “You were captured by the Ministry and they let you stay here? Doing whatever you want?”

Draco sniffs. “I’d much prefer to tell the Dark Lord what my intentions are, but if you must know, I was collecting information.”

Yaxley growls in displeasure. “You’re a fucking liar if I ever saw one Malfoy.”

“Let me speak in front of the Dark Lord and we’ll see who’s lying then,” Draco hisses, eyes narrowed.

Yaxley steps closer, his breath hot and heavy on Draco’s cheeks. “If you so much as breathe in the wrong direction between now and our arrival in the Manor, you’ll regret telling me what you just did.”

“I’m relying on it,” Draco replies, and his tongue feels like sawdust in his mouth.

-

“Magna Motus is not a spell, you must remember, it is an intent in your mind, something that cannot be put into words.” Draco’s tutor sits in the sunlight of Malfoy Manor’s garden, on a wooden bench covered in white paint. “It is an ancient magic used to control and harness natural energy. For example, there is fire, light – ”

“Gravity,” Draco interrupts. He is eight years old and absorbs information like a sponge. “Yes,” she smiles. “Gravity.” Sunlight slashes in Draco’s eyes and the memory blurs, shifts into another scene with a soft click.

He is eleven years old and his hand is pale, outstretched.

“No,” Potter says coolly, “I think I can sort the wrong kind out for myself, thanks.”

Anger burns low in Draco’s gut, but even deeper, there is hurt. The world begins to blur. Click.

“Draco,” Dumbledore says, his eyes tender and much too bright. “Draco, I can help you.”

“You can’t – ” Draco starts. Dumbledore’s hand is black, charred. The memory shifts. Click.

“I made an Unbreakable Vow,” Snape’s voice is low and it reverberates in Draco’s chest.

“Looks like you’ll have to break it then,” Draco says, and pride colors the edges of his voice. The dragon in his gut preens. Click.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Potter pants and the words are raspy. “I _know_ , I know you’re doing something.”

Draco breathes through his mouth, breath puffing against Harry’s cheek. Draco’s nails catch onto Potter’s robes, his mouth curved into a wicked snarl, sharp as a knife, when he replies with a low, “Go fuck yourself,” eyes narrowed into slits.

Click.

Dumbledore, bent at the knees, Draco’s wand outstretched. The memory fades and a series of images follows it:

Narcissa Malfoy, collapsed on the floor of Draco’s bedroom, blood seeping from her body.

Click.

Fiendfyre burning snow behind an empty building in Hogsmeade.

Click.

The deep, deep purple of Kingsley’s robes.

Click.

“Dumbledore has left you a place in the Order – ”

Click.

“ – Fucking Death Eater scum – ”

Click.

“Shove off,” Potter says, and they step into Regulus’s bedroom. “Dolores Umbridge has – has something we need to retrieve.”

Click.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Potter asks, and the question is clear and simple.

“You don’t,” Draco says, mouth curved into a dangerous smile.

The memory shifts without a sound.

Draco’s memories leave him in a rush; he sways a little when Lord Voldemort extracts himself from Draco’s mind.

“Draco,” the Dark Lord purrs, and his fingers press into the crook of Draco’s elbow, cold nails scraping against the skin there. “Dearest, Draco.”

“Tell me,” Voldemort whispers, and Draco thinks he can feel his lips press against the curve of his ear. “Who most, on the Light side, do you despise the most?”

Voldemort’s eyes are dark and beady. Carefully, very very carefully, Draco thinks of his mum, allows anger to cloud his mind, rage fill his muscles until he clenches his fist.

“Harry Potter,” he mutters slowly. It feels so fucking _easy –_

Voldemort pauses and all Draco can feel are three pinpricks of icy cold where Voldemort has three fingers pressed into the soft skin of the inside of Draco’s arm. Draco’s thumb presses into the insignia etched into his ring.

“Well, you’ve proved much more valuable than you seem, don’t you? All thanks to that old fool, Dumbledore. Potter must’ve put in a good word for you as well, hm?” Voldemort’s words are hardly louder than a whisper, but they ring in Draco’s ears. _Do not let them –_

Voldemort tightens his grip on Draco’s arm. “They always did believe in people’s abilities to change too much.”

The Dark Lord pulls away from Draco in a rustle of cloth whispering against skin.

“Draco Malfoy has not defected,” he says loudly to the room full of hushed Death Eaters. Draco lets his eyes raise, slowly, and he sees Dolohov standing directly in front of him, mouth curved into a nasty smile.

“Draco Malfoy is an asset,” Voldemort says warmly, and Nagini slithers around his feet. “Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater, and tonight, he shall be praised.” _For accomplishing in what Severus Snape has failed,_ remains unspoken, but hangs in the air still the same.

“Tonight, Draco Malfoy returns.” And when Voldemort turns to look at Draco, Draco meets his gaze without flinching.

As soon as the meeting has been adjourned, Dolohov finds him. Draco walks down a familiar hall to his room when he feels a shadow following his footsteps.

“You’ve become rather useful, haven’t you?” Dolohov all but purrs and Draco slips into the darkness of his room. Dolohov follows.

“Draco,” Dolohov starts, and Draco’s name sounds strange in Dolohov’s mouth, as if it doesn’t really fit there.  

“Yaxley doesn’t believe you, you know.”

“The Dark Lord believes me,” Draco’s voice is silky and too complacent for his liking.

“Never said he didn’t,” agrees Dolohov. “I just want you to know that you should be cautious about these things.”

Draco’s fingers feel clumsy as he fumbles at the clasp of his cloak. The room abruptly feels warm, much warmer than what is comfortable.

“You’ve changed,” Dolohov’s voice is low as he strides over to Draco, puts a dry hand over Draco’s quivering on to help unclasp his cloak.

Draco steps away instantaneously, eyes narrowing.

“What do you mean?” Draco’s voice is carefully steady. Dolohov takes Draco’s cloak, tosses it onto Draco’s bed.

Dolohov’s eyes are cold and calculating; suddenly Draco is struck with an icy sense of foreboding. Irrationally, he thinks that Dolohov could be hiding Occulumency skills, as Draco is. Never more had Draco been grateful for Aunt Bella’s Occulumency lessons.

 _Fucking Death Eater scum_.

“Since your mother died,” Dolohov cocks his head slowly, as if contemplating Draco like a potions experiment, wondering if Draco would blow up in his face if he added the wrong ingredient. “You’ve been more closed off. You’ve always been mediocre at keeping your emotions hidden,” Dolohov’s eyes are freezing, flints of obsidian, “So imagine our surprise when darling Draco woke up one morning without any feeling.”

Dolohov is close, much too close –

“One might think you have something to hide. Other than your emotions regarding your mother’s death, of course,” he inclines his head in lieu of condolences.

Draco’s throat is dry.

Draco wants to live.

“But you know better,” he says. He lets Dolohov play right into his hands.

For a heartbeat, Draco wonders if Dolohov will believe him, or if Draco isn’t as good as he thinks he is at concealing his emotions. _Don’t let them._

“I know better,” Dolohov reaffirms, wraps two fingers around the skinny bones of Draco’s wrist. “Still. You have to watch yourself. Nothing goes on at the Manor without someone else knowing it.”

Draco says, “I know.”

“Of course you do,” Dolohov smiles, lips razor thin.


	3. three

Dark blood coats dark grass under a dark sky, reflecting the dull light of a full moon.

Draco stands in a ring of Death Eaters, Snape on his right and Dolohov to his left. His heartbeat is steady and Draco keeps his face deliberately blank. The Dark Lord is not present today; instead, Yaxley has procured yet another nameless Muggleborn, tied up and gagged on the dirt of yet another backyard belonging to yet another blood-betraying family.

Viscous blood looks like spilled wine.

_Natural time travel stories are quite possible in General Relativity, and some of them are quite curious._

The man lets out another blood-curdling scream. Draco watches the man’s fingers turn white, clenched tightly into fists.

_While most of spacetime seems to be flat or gently rolling contours, physicists are aware of spacetime regions with unusual and severe topologies such as rotating black holes._

“Come now,” Dolohov croons to Yaxley, from his spot next to Draco. “Let the rest of us have some fun as well.”

Yaxley’s face is covered with a Death Eater mask, but the conjured mask still reveals the crook of his lips as his mouth contorts into a ragged smile, magic fitting like a second skin over his face.

In the ring of about seven, every Death Eater wears their silver mask, watching the scene unfold before them.

_Another type of time-travel employs two infinitely long and very fast moving cosmic "strings" of extremely dense material._

The man lies supine on the grass, eyes misted over and rolled backwards into his skull. His chest heaves, body desperately struggling to cling onto life. Yaxley has cleanly ripped the man’s shirt from his torso, sliced into tender skin. Draco is situated near the body’s feet, but can still make out the white gleam of ribs.

Yaxley raises his wand. “Anyone else want to have a go?”

A few Death Eaters chuckle; Draco thinks he can feel Dolohov rumbling beside him. Bellatrix’s laugh is a feminine, tinkling sound.

“Don’t mind if I do,” spills from her lips and there is a horrible noise as the man’s legs crack with a sickening sound, skin ripping and bone splintering under the force of Bellatrix’s spell. Blood spurts in a delicate arc, splattering onto grass with a soft noise. Draco presses his signet ring into his thigh, ridges digging into his skin.

A spell keeps the man from dying, keeps oxygen pumping into his lungs and blood running through his veins. This night is not dissimilar to the raids most Death Eaters partake in.

_As these cosmic strings rush past one another, they would create severely curved spacetime such that spacetime curved back on itself._

The man screams again and Bellatrix is positively cackling, moonlight glinting off her wand, off her mask, off the warm blood on the ground. Their voices mix in a strange mélange in the night air, and all Draco can do is press his ring harder into his skin.

There comes a sudden slashing movement from beside him; Dolohov has cast his signature curse, streaks of purple flaming from his wand and passing through the man on the ground. The body thrashes violently, bone protruding from a split in skin.

“Go on,” Dolohov says, and he is suddenly much closer to Draco, fingers light at the base of Draco’s spine and lips brushing against the curve of Draco’s ear. Dolohov’s skin is cool under the mirage of his Death Eater’s mask. “Don’t want anyone to think you’re missing out,” Dolohov insists, voice low and gravelly. Draco thinks he can hear the smile in his words.

Draco wants to live.

Yells fill the air once more. Bellatrix cackles and Yaxley stands tall, silhouetted against the moonlight. A memory of Voldemort’s wrist – curved and pale, the negligible flick of his wand – surfaces.

Draco raises his wand.

Wonted rage lies warm in his belly, as uncomfortable as the first day, as aggravating as it was when Narcissa’s eyes had rolled to face the ceiling, glassy and emotionless –

“ _L_ _ycacomia_ ,” he says sharply, wrist snapping in a clear movement, and he thinks he hears Snape sharply inhale next to him, but he can’t be sure.

The effect is instantaneous.

The man’s jaws snap shut with a vicious click and the Death Eaters are hushed into silence. The man’s shoulders draw in, hunching together and Draco sees hair sprouting visibly on his hands and face and chest. The night fills with a terrific snarling noise as the man’s head lengthens, teeth bared and incisors thickening by the second. His hands curl into paws and Draco raises his wand once more as the man lets out a nonhuman scream.

“ _Avis_ ,” says Draco. A flock of ravens sprout from the tip of Draco’s wand, beaks gleaming and claws hooked. “ _Oppugno_.”

The ravens screech and Bella lets out a throaty laugh.

“Darling Draco,” she preens, and lifts her wand once more.

“Impressive,” Dolohov says once the lifeless body has been Vanished and the Death Eaters begin to Disapparate from the scene. “That was a tricky bit of wand work there,” he says easily.

Draco has his mouth open to reply when Bellatrix materializes on Draco’s other side in a flurry of tangled hair and faded robes. “Tricky bit of wand work,” she mimics, and slips her cold hand into Draco’s. She props her chin onto Draco’s shoulder, breasts pressed up against Draco’s arm, tilts her head to look up at Dolohov. “Antonin, we all understand your infatuation with pretty things, but leave baby Draco and me alone.”

She cackles when Dolohov Disapparates with a loud crack.

“Much better, don’t you agree?” she hums happily. The other Death Eaters have all left, and the moon still shines dully. “Dolohov’s all too fond of you,” she sniffs, and her right hand is so small in Draco’s palm.

Her other hand is freezing cold against his cheek. It trails up to his scalp and she combs one hand through his hair, tugging on his roots a bit. The hand that fits into Draco’s palm clenches a fraction tighter. Her bosom is warm against his arm.

“I guess,” Draco murmurs. He stares forward, eyes fixed on the Muggle cityscape of London in the distance. _Don’t let them._

She turns to look him in the eye. Draco finds that he must tilt his head slightly downward to look into her intense gaze. “Well,” she remarks coldly, and Draco finds himself wondering how this woman was related to his mother.

“He was all over you just now,” she shudders, drawing closer to Draco. “To think that Dolohov had his filthy paws all over Cissy’s little baby boy.” She shakes her head in mock horror, then looks through her eyelashes at Draco with a heated smile. “Although who could blame him? You did so well today,” Bellatrix notes demurely. “Cissy would’ve been proud.”

_The natural time traveler would be prepared to exploit these conditions at just the right moment and fly her spaceship around the two strings. If executed properly, she would return to her starting point in space but at an earlier time._

“But Cissy isn’t here.” Bellatrix pouts. “Is she Draco?”

Muggle London is bright, lined with flickering lights. Draco’s chest rises and falls with the evenness of his breathing.

“No,” he hears himself say, “But you are,” and Bella hums in delight.

“I’m here,” she agrees enthusiastically. Her fingers are snared in his hair, breasts hot against his chest and palm cold in his hand. Draco resists the urge to shudder.

_If executed properly, she would return to her starting point in space but at an earlier time._

Bellatrix leans in close, eyes wide and glassy. When she speaks, her voice tilts in such a way that her words seem to be more of a threat than a reminder.

“Don’t you forget it.”

-

Draco reaches the Apparation point just past Malfoy Manor and Apparates to McGonagall’s safehouse, a loud crack filling the air. His feet have just hit solid ground when he feels a wand press against his throat.

“Give me one reason,” Potter seethes, emerald eyes incensed. “Give me one reason not to slit your throat right now, after what you’ve done.” Potter’s left hand clenches around Draco’s lapels, his cheeks florid and the caps of his knees bumping against Draco’s shins.

Choler rises in Draco’s throat, but he wisely swallows it down, Adam’s apple bobbing once. Potter’s eyes are unwavering and Draco thinks of the fantastic king Gilgamesh, two-thirds god and one-third man.

“Yaxley Side-Alonged with Granger back to Grimmauld Place, it wasn’t as if I had a choice – ”

“You always have a choice!” Potter hisses and Draco’s close enough to see the circles underneath his eyes.

“It was a calculated decision,” Draco snaps, pushing Potter off of him, “What else was I supposed to do besides go with him?”

“It wasn’t the plan – ”

“Fuck the plan,” Draco snorts, shoving his hands into his pockets, turning away from Potter. “You know as well as I do that I made the best decision when I Apparated out of there with Yaxley.”

“You could’ve Stunned him, or waited until – ”

Impatience flares in Draco’s belly, and he turns around. “Yaxley was with three other Death Eaters, Potter, what was to be done about that?”

Potter’s eyes narrow in a silent impasse. “And what happened when Yaxley appeared in Grimmauld Place?”

Draco answers truthfully. “He demanded I give him proof that I was actually Draco Malfoy and then brought me back to Malfoy Manor to see the Dark Lord.”

Potter’s silence is a question in itself, his eyes two shards of flint. Draco envisions Gilgamesh, who suffered the most from immoderation – personification of all human characteristics, both virtue and sin.

“I went to see the Dark Lord and he sorted through my memories.”

Something akin to shock registers in Potter’s eyes. “All of them?”

“No,” he manages not to roll his eyes, “I used Occulumency to shield the ones I didn’t want him to see. He knows you went to the Ministry to see Umbridge, but he doesn’t know why you were there.” And nor do I, remains unspoken.

Potter’s gaze hardens, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Draco beats him to it.

“I’m supposed to be at Snape’s house as of now,” Draco says quickly. “And I’ve already stopped here twice this week to see if anyone was here, and the house was empty.”

Potter nods, “Can you meet me here again on Friday? In the evening? If I’m not here, I’ll have McGonagall come. It was lucky enough that I caught you today.”

Draco wants to ask why Potter is still here, why he isn’t off fighting somewhere, but they’re in the midst of a war and there is no time for questions. Draco nods curtly, then Apparates to Spinner’s End.

-

Draco thinks that he’s managed to convince the Dark Lord of his loyalties because Draco himself isn’t exactly sure where they lie.

He still falls asleep at night wrapped up in his silky sheets, his Mother’s screams ringing in his ears, piercing even his most clouded dreams. He wakes up with his signet ring pressing into his thigh and in these moments, Draco wants to vomit, as if physically pushing the bile from his body will release the memories from his mind. He thinks of the countless writhing bodies under dark skies, blood coating their skin. Draco thinks of the countless _Avada_ ’s he has heard escape from Voldemort’s mouth and he tells himself he is not a killer.

But even then, the pride in his stomach tells him that this is _it_ , this is what he has grown up to believe in and this is what has been repeated to him countless times – in the morning over breakfast, in the garden during his walks with his Mother, at night just before he goes to sleep – this is what his namesake represents; this is part of being a Malfoy.

He considers the fact that the Order of the Phoenix could be leading him into a stratagem as much as he is them, and wonders what he would do if forced to choose between the two sides.

Draco pores over these thoughts, running over every action he can possibly take and he finds only one real answer that he can bring himself to believe: he wants to live. Draco Malfoy is a coward and he wants to side with the side of the battle that will win; this is who he is and who he believes he will always be.

-

Friday evening finds Draco Malfoy, legs crossed artfully and wand tucked into his robes.

He’s sitting in a stiff armchair in McGonagall’s safehouse when the fire crackles and Harry Potter and Hermione Granger step out from the Floo.

Granger nods her head but other than that, they waste no time on pleasantries. It's difficult to believe that they're really here. Draco forces himself to remain objective.

“After the Dark Lord deemed my services,” Draco begins, “Expendable, he had me scour the Malfoy library.”

Potter and Granger sit across from Draco, features stark in the firelight. A knot twists inside Draco’s gut, small and sour.

“The topics were rather odd at first. He had me pull out some of my texts from long ago, when I still had a tutor. The first few passages were on the great wizard, Einstein, and his theories about gravity and special relativity – ”

Potter looks like he wants to interrupt but Draco keeps talking, ignores both Potter and the bile at the back of his throat.

“The details aren’t particularly important, but Voldemort wanted me to take notes on everything. He wanted every scrap of information from every single book in that library, even if Einstein’s theories were mentioned just in passing.

“I’m sure that some of the information was extraneous; the information he actually wanted was hidden within the mountain of things he had me research.”

Granger frowns. “Was it only information on Einstein?”

Draco shakes his head. “No. In fact, he had me research quite a bit on healing properties of different plants and animals, although I suspect that was superficial as well. Before he sent me to Snape, the Dark Lord had me meet a few wizards from a small town in Scotland.”

Potter leans forward, but Draco shakes his head. “I couldn’t remember where it was if I tried. But I got the information that Voldemort wanted, and I came back to relay it to him. The wizards in Scotland were researching something called a cosmic string.” He looks toward Granger and she nods her head in recognition.

“It’s a disruption in the spacetime continuum,” she directs to Potter, “Think of it as a crack in the universe.”

“Anyway,” Draco continues, “Out of all the things he had me research, there were telltale signs that they were what the Dark Lord actually wanted information on.”

“But,” Granger furrows her eyebrows, “The nearest cosmic string has to be galaxies away. No one’s ever found one before; they’re purely hypothetical. And even if you could find one, the probability – ”

“Hang on,” Potter protests, “What do these strings have to do with anything?”

Granger is chewing on her bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed. She glances at Draco.

“If you find a cosmic string,” Draco starts, “Theoretically, the spacetime around such a disruption would be distorted. So if you found two of them close enough together – ”

“You’d be able to go back in time?” Potter guesses and Granger nods.

“The implications of time travel are already dangerous enough with just a Time Turner; I can hardly imagine the distortions a body would go through in order to travel that far back in time,” Granger chews on her bottom lip.

“But why,” Potter presses, “Why would he need to go back?”

Draco frowns.

“To kill you of course. Properly, that is. Ensuring your death ensures that the prophecy will never come true, and when he comes back to the present, the Dark Side is guaranteed to win.”

Potter’s eyebrows knit.

“The prophecy refers to two,” Potter says, almost to himself.

“What?”

“The prophecy refers to a person with the power to vanquish Voldemort, right?” Potter asks.

Draco nods once.

“The prophecy could’ve applied to either myself or Neville Longbottom,” Potter insists, head shaking in disbelief. “Even if he goes back to kill me, Neville would still be left to fulfill the prophecy! It wouldn’t work.”

Draco’s eyes flash. “It doesn’t matter.” Don’t show them, he tells himself, curling his fists inside his robes.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t – ”

Draco briefly registers Granger’s curious expression but pushes it to the back of his mind.

“The prophecy refers to two people, so what? He’ll go back and kill the both of you. It doesn’t matter what the prophecy says,” Draco grinds out.  “So there’s two. So he’ll terminate both of your families and he’ll still be able to win.”

“But the Horcruxes,” Granger butts in.

“The what?”

“Horcruxes,” Potter says, and his eyes lidded. “Voldemort split his soul into multiple pieces and hid them in objects, so even if we kill his body, it wouldn’t work. He has other parts of his soul hiding who knows where.”

Something clicks in Draco’s mind.

Granger nods, “So then why would Voldemort travel to the past? He can’t die, he has his Horcruxes about him – ”

Draco shakes his head, “No, even with the Horcruxes it still doesn’t matter. Voldemort wants to go back to kill you,” Draco directs at Potter.

“But why?” Potter explodes. “How do we know for sure that he’s going back for that reason? If he plans on going back in time at all?”

“Because,” Draco snarls, “Just because Voldemort may be close to immortality does _not_ mean that the rest of his army is, Potter.”

For a minute, the only sound that fills the safehouse is the gentle crackling of the fire.

“So you’re saying,” Potter’s eyes are impossibly green, “That Voldemort wants to travel back in time – ”

Draco’s eyes flash dangerously and a sneer paints itself across his face. The knot in his stomach dissolves into nothingness. “Isn’t it obvious Potter? It’s because he believes he won’t be able to win.”

-

“You may have convinced the Dark Lord, but we all know how slippery your family is, Draco,” Yaxley says.

They are in Draco’s room in Malfoy Manor. Sunlight streams in through the window. Yaxley stands by the window, hands in his pockets and Death Eater mask covering his face.

“I don’t know what you showed the Dark Lord, but it must’ve been a helluva show to convince him that you were captured by the Ministry, set free in the old headquarters of the Order, and then came back as a spy for our side.”

“As absurd as it sounds, Yaxley,” Draco watches himself sneer, “Becoming a spy requires quite a bit of intellectual prowess, which is a department you’re a bit lacking in. I’m sure it’s hard for you to comprehend, but do try to keep up.”

Pensieve Draco stands at the foot of his bed, features blurred in the cloudiness of the Pensieve. The corners of the room are hazy in Draco’s memory. McGonagall, Potter, and Granger stand by the door.

Yaxley whirls around, features contorted in anger.

“You’re a fucking cheat, Malfoy. A coward and a cheat, too spineless to declare a side – ”

“I saw an opportunity,” Pensieve Draco hisses, and his expression conveys nothing but annoyance. “I saw an opportunity and I seized it, Yaxley. The Dark Lord has been through _all_ of my memories and the Dark Lord is nothing but thorough.” Draco’s voice is ice-cold, even in the fogginess of the memory. Draco feels a bit of pride surface when he sees that Pensieve Draco’s expression discloses only frostiness.

“Unless of course,” Pensieve Draco continues, voice falsely contemplative. “You doubt the Lord’s decisions?”

Yaxley’s curves into a nasty frown and the memory shifts with a gentle click.

Viscous blood looks like spilled wine and Antonin Dolohov has his wand out, purple flames spilling from its tip.

A body writhes on the ground and screams fill the air. Pensieve Draco is motionless, standing some little ways from Dolohov.

“Draco,” Bellatrix says, her voice lilting. “It’s your turn, darling.”

Click.

They’re back in Draco’s room, except now the curtains have been drawn and the night is still outside, creeping through the cracks between the curtain and the windowsill. Draco sits at the foot of his bed, wrapped up in his Death Eater robes.

“You can’t go around saying things like this to Yaxley,” Dolohov murmurs, eyes lidded. He sits next to Draco. “He makes for a dangerous enemy, even if you’re both working for the same side.”

Pensieve Draco lets out a shrug.

Dolohov’s fingers run up Draco’s sleeve, curling around the back of Pensieve Draco’s neck. His lips press against the curve of Draco’s ear. “You ought to know better,” and even as Draco watches the scene unfold before him, Dolohov’s voice elicits a curl of discomfort in Draco’s gut.

Click.

A fire crackles in the Malfoy library, but darkness lingers in the corners of the room. Pensieve Draco sits in a stiff-backed chair, poring over a thick book.

Potter moves closer to Draco, and his presence is warm behind him.

Pensieve Draco looks up at the sound of footsteps approaching the library, eyes sharp. His real life counterpart turns to look at Potter.

“He comes in to check on what I do.”

As if on cue, the doors to the library swing open. The fire flickers as the Dark Lord sweeps into the room, his presence collecting shadows around his ankles.

“My Lord,” Pensieve Draco moves to collect himself, but abruptly halts when the Dark Lord makes a cutting motion with his hand.

“Your notes, Malfoy,” the Dark Lord says, and his voice is soft and mellifluous.

“Of course,” Pensieve Draco replies, collecting the papers from the desk beside him.

“He collects the notes that I make periodically,” Draco murmurs to Potter. McGonagall and Granger are still, watching the memory without comment. Draco strides over to where the Pensieve Dark Lord examines Pensieve Draco’s notes. Draco waves a hand through the stack of notes in the Dark Lord’s hand. “My notes are more comprehensive and concise than any other Death Eater can hope to make,” Draco says with a hint of pride tinging his voice.

Draco thinks he hears Potter snorts, but the memory melts into the present before Draco can be sure.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall says stiffly, and her eyes are sharp and piercing even against the dark skin underneath them. “We shall see you in a week’s time.” McGonagall and Granger take their leave without another word, leaving Draco alone with Potter in the safehouse. It says something of the situation that they're in when Draco lets Granger leave without a single sneer.

“And you?” Draco winces at how raspy his voice sounds. “Why are you still here? Aren’t you supposed to be off destroying Horcruxes and saving the world?”

Potter’s eyes glaze into something similar to indifference. “There’s only so much one person can do.” His words sound like something he’s been repeating in his head, over and over again, trying to convince himself that it is true. “And apparently, it was in Dumbledore’s wishes that I stay away from the war until it was absolutely necessary.”

Draco peers at Potter. His face is smothered with grime, dirt smeared onto his neck but his eyes are glazed with a stubbornness that resonates in Draco’s gut. “Apparently the old man had wishes for us both.”

There is no sympathy in Potter’s eyes; instead, his face reads a soft kind of curiosity, tentative and calculating at the same time. A sudden heat rises in Draco’s chest, although he isn’t sure if it is anger or lust or both. Potter’s eyes ask a thousand questions and Draco doesn’t have an answer for a single one.

Instead, he reaches out, twists his hand into Potter’s crumpled shirt.

Potter’s lips are slick and hot, his tongue desperate and needy in Draco’s mouth. A whine builds in the back of Draco’s throat and he just wants to forget, wants to drown in the waves of desire hammering in his chest –

Draco’s hips push insistently into Potter’s crotch, their chests pressed against each other, but Draco needs to be so much closer. A voice pipes up in the back of his head. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be here, he can’t let them in –

But Potter has snuck a hand under Draco’s robes, his finger teasingly flitting up Draco’s thigh, and Draco’s gut winds up tight, stomach clenching in anticipation.

“Fuck,” Draco gasps, and Potter’s hot hand wraps around Draco’s achingly hard length. “Fuck.”

“That’s the idea, Malfoy,” Potter smirks. A gasp erupts from Draco’s chest; ribbons of pleasure flutter up his spine as Potter pumps faster, thumb swiping over precome collecting on Draco’s prick.

“We can’t – ” Draco begins, breaking off when Potter pulls his hand from out of Draco’s robes, puts his finger into his mouth. Potter’s eyes are full of heat, and Draco is shocked by the carnality of his gaze. He pulls his fingers from his mouth with a bawdy pop.

“If I remember correctly,” Potter pants, “You were the one that started this.”

“I wasn’t – this isn’t – ”

“Me neither,” Potter says and crashes their lips together again, sliding one slick finger into Draco. A murmured spell fills the silence and slickness coats Potter's fingers.

Draco groans around the intrusion, lets his head fall back and hit the dusty wall behind him. Potter’s finger is cool inside Draco’s body and the slight friction has Draco craving for more. “More,” he grunts.

One finger turns to two turns to three turns to Potter’s prick, hot and thick, pressing insistently between Draco’s thighs.

“Can I – oh fuck, Malfoy, come on, can I – ” Potter’s voice is strained, cheeks tinged with color and hair damp on his forehead. Potter’s belt buckle is cold against Draco’s thigh, worn leather rough against his sensitive skin.

“Come on,” Draco hisses and Potter’s prick slides into his body with practiced ease. Draco’s skin feels too tight, Potter’s body burning hot and everything is tense, his cock filling up Draco, every crevice in his body –

Potter’s sweaty palm wraps around Draco’s prick and his spine digs into the wall behind him, robes rucked up around his waist. “Fuck,” Draco groans, and Potter’s wrist bends into a delicate curve, his thrusts frantic and shallow.

“Malfoy,” Potter pants into Draco’s ear and his breath burns, heart loud and relentless in his chest, slamming itself onto Draco’s insides –

And then Potter’s hips buck, prick nudging against that spot inside Draco, right there, right fucking _there_ and Draco comes with a shout, spilling into Potter’s hand. The curve of Potter’s hand coils and uncoils, pumping Draco through his orgasm.

“ _Oh_ ,” Potter says, and he slides into Draco one last time, bending over like he’s hit with an Unforgivable, head drooping on Draco’s shoulder, teeth pressing against skin.

“We can’t do this,” Draco says a moment later, exhaling sharply when Potter’s flaccid cock slips out of his body.

“We just did it,” says Potter, waving his wand and muttering _Scourgify_ , come disappearing from their bodies.

Draco’s mouth twists into something sour. Something in his chest twinges. “You’re fucking hilarious, you know that Potter?” Draco’s sneer comes over his face easily, much too fast. “Think that because I let you put your cock up my ass – ”

“Shut up,” Potter seethes and his neck is flushed, eyes livid. Even with his pants undone and his shirt rumpled, Draco’s skin prickles at the sight of Potter. Potter takes a step closer, wand tight in his hand, crowding Draco into the wall and even now, post-orgasm, his stomach flutters with heat. “I don’t know if Dumbledore was right to trust you, and I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here – ”

A surge of indignation rises in Draco. He allows anger to color his voice when he speaks. “If you have any doubts Potter, any doubts at all,” he hisses through his teeth, blood flooding his veins, “Trust me when I say that every time anyone from the Order doubts me, whenever I even _think_ about betraying your side, I’m remembering _my_ mother, her dead body, lying on the floor of my bedroom, crying with her last breath while her husband and son stand by, doing nothing, just fucking _watching_ – ”

Potter’s eyes are wide, not with disbelief, but with anticipation –

“And if that won’t stop me from betraying you, I don’t know what will,” Draco finishes, wonders which one of them he’s trying to convince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpts that Draco reflect upon can be found [here](http://www.iep.utm.edu/timetrav/).


	4. four

“Ron, you don’t understand –  ”

“I bloody well understood when he tried to kill Katie Bell, Slughorn, and bloody Dumbledore back at Hogwarts! What don’t you lot _not_ understand? He tried to kill – ”

“We need all the help we can get!” Hermione’s voice is shrill and desperate. Harry winces at it, as it echoes within the four walls of the attic in the safehouse. Ron’s face is tight with anger and betrayal, his hands pale fists at his sides. One of his cheeks is cut and there’s a bruise welling under his left eye.

“This war is tearing us apart, Ron – the Order doesn’t have headquarters anymore and we – ”

“McGonagall expects us to forget all that he’s done? After his mum popped her clogs he can just waltz back in here and pretend that he works for the Order – ”

“It doesn’t matter!” Hermione interjects. “I’ve been through his memories even more than Harry and Professor McGonagall and his mother meant everything to him. And even if he is planning to betray us, Shacklebolt and McGonagall have prepared for it and he is _not_ a member, Ron; we’re just using him until we don’t need him anymore,” she finishes, eyes defiant and lips pursed.

Ron’s shoulders slump, but not with defeat. “’Mione,” he says, and even though his words aren’t directed at Harry, his stomach aches at the cracks in Ron’s voice.

Hermione plops onto the dusty couch, right next to Harry, and Ron wordlessly follows. For a moment, the three of them sit there, and Harry can only revel in the changes that have pushed their friendship, the changes that will continue to push their friendship until the war finally ends.

“Malfoy has sorted through an immense amount of information,” Hermione begins tentatively, “And I may not like him, but he’s done a lot of work on his part.” Her fingers tangle into Ron’s and Harry pretends he doesn’t see. “I’ve sorted through all of his memories, and for him to be able to extrapolate from what You-Know-Who had him do was onerous, honestly. I don’t think he would’ve done that unless – ”

“Right right,” Ron interjects, before Hermione can launch into her detailed explanation behind Malfoy’s plans. Ron pauses for a moment, then turns to Harry. “And what about you mate? What do you reckon?”

Harry blinks, thinks of Malfoy on those Friday evenings when there is no product in his hair, when it’s soft and light under Harry’s touch. _Trust me when I say that every time anyone doubts me_ –

Harry thinks of the ring that Malfoy’s lips make when his mouth forms into a perfectly shaped o, his skin, soft and always clean, lips slightly parted – _I’m remembering_ my _mother, her dead body, lying on the floor of my bedroom_ – and his eyes so cold, hands slender and mouth trembling, the way he hesitates – _if that won’t stop me from betraying you, I don’t know what will_.

“I don’t trust him,” Harry says slowly, “But he’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing. And Dumbledore trusted him, so that’s good enough for me.”

Ron sighs, chest rising and falling at Harry’s side.

“Shacklebolt has planned for the worst when it comes to Draco Malfoy,” Hermione says a heartbeat later and Ron sighs again. His chest shudders around the breath and Harry thinks he can feel his bones quivering. The war has taken its toll on all of them.

“Well, I best be off then,” Ron murmurs. “Can’t wait to see what the Carrows have in store for us after the hols.”

Hermione grimaces and tightens her grip on Ron’s hand. “You’re protecting the students there Ron. Your mum is proud of you; all of us are.”

“Doesn’t feel like it after Luna and Dean were captured,” Ron mutters lowly, but Hermione does not hear. The trio collect themselves silently and walk down the gray stairs to the bottom of the safehouse. A solemn Christmas tree twinkles in the corner of the room and Harry feels a tendril of unexplainable pain in his gut.

“See you then, mate,” Harry manages to speak. Ron’s features mold into a painful smile, and he clasps Harry firmly on the shoulder.

“Hold it down for us here, yeah? You’re doing us all a favor.”

Harry nods wordlessly, watches as Ron kiss Hermione gently, before Apparating back to Hogwarts.

Hermione turns toward Harry, eyes suspiciously dry. “I know you feel angry, Harry, but – ”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s what Dumbledore wanted. I can understand that.”

And Hermione’s lips shape into a sad smile, eyes knowing. “We won’t be gone for long,” she promises. Then Harry blinks and she is gone as well.

He turns back to survey the safehouse around him; it is gray and bleak and Harry begins to feel hurt building in his chest, simmering under his skin. This, _this_ , is the place that Dumbledore wanted to keep Harry safe in, protected from the war outside, just up until it was necessary.

While Ron fights for the protection of the students at Hogwarts, defending them against the Carrows and Snape. While Hermione and Neville and Ginny hunt for the remaining Horcruxes and while Dean Thomas and Luna – gentle Luna – are holed up in Malfoy Manor, Harry must wait. A sharp memory floats back into Harry’s mind, of McGonagall’s stern expression as she told him he was to stay in the safehouse, to be holed up like a prized possession, as the final weapon against the Dark Side –

Hurt bubbles into anger bubbles into resentment, threating to spill over in Harry’s chest, consume every part of his body and suddenly Harry wants to throw something, to smash something, to just fucking _do_ something other than stay in this safehouse and wait out the rest of the war, looking through fat books and pretending to assist the cause.

“Dumbledore didn’t give his life so that you could traipse about England, looking for ancient artifacts, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall had said and Harry wanted to scream then, that Dumbledore didn’t give his life – Snape took it, took it willingly and without an ounce of remorse.

Harry’s hand clenches tightly around his wand when he thinks of Neville, brave Neville, helping Hermione and Ginny. _Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies._ Doubt swirls through his mind before Harry’s thoughts shift to Ginny, who had accepted their departure with the same fierce expression she wore on the day she kissed Harry, had accepted that their relationship was better just as friends.

His thoughts drift to Malfoy – his overripe-peach colored lips and his slender fingers – then to the bottle of firewhiskey waiting for him in one of the kitchen’s dusty pantries.

Harry is halfway through the bottle, slumped over in a ragged armchair when the rain starts to splatter onto the windows of the safehouse. Night follows quickly after and Harry is dozing in his chair when a loud crack fills the room.

“Well, if it isn’t the great Saint Potter,” a familiar drawl fills the room. “What’s this?” Malfoy strides over to pluck the firewhiskey bottle from Harry’s hand, “Drowning your sorrows in alcohol?” Malfoy sneers and Harry feels a twinge of annoyance when he sees Malfoy’s pale skin. How he manages to keep it clean during a time like this, Harry wishes he knew.

“Like I have anything better to do,” Harry mutters, and waves his wand, floats another firewhiskey into the sitting room from the open pantry in the kitchen.

Malfoy, still standing, eyes the bottle of firewhiskey. “Where’s McGonagall?”

“Hogwarts,” Harry nearly spits, “The Carrows are refusing to let anyone enter or leave without their permission.”

At this, Malfoy’s expression darkens before he schools it into a cool façade.

Harry takes a swing from his firewhiskey before continuing, relishing the burn that travels down the length of his throat.

“What is Vold – ”

Malfoy has his wand out in a split second, purple flame erupting from the tip and causing pain to blossom in Harry’s gut.

“Fuck!” Harry wheezes, doubling over. His eyes water and his firewhiskey clunks onto the floor.

“Don’t say his name,” Malfoy retorts sharply. “It’s taboo.”

Harry blinks, the alcohol in his system slowly degrading his train of thought. “Ta – taboo?”

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy sniffs. “So keep your mouth shut unless you’d like to end up in Malfoy Manor.”

It takes Harry a minute to process this. “Fine,” he says slowly. The gears in his head are moving painfully slow and the silence drags into eons as Harry struggles to come up with something to say. “So,” he slurs, “What have you learned about, er, – about You-Know-Who’s plans?”

Malfoy hesitates, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle in his hand. “I’m beginning to believe that his research on healing properties of rare, magical items isn’t entirely arbitrary,” he begins, but all Harry can see is the perfect shape of each of Malfoy’s nails, clean and trimmed. Malfoy’s mouth is tilted in a slight frown, and his features are rugged in a way that they never were at Hogwarts.

“The way he has me research materials leads me to question a few legs of my theory – ”

Harry groans. “Shut up,” he mutters, picking up his firewhiskey. Harry lets his gaze linger on the long lines of Malfoy’s legs before he sits back up in his chair. Briefly, he remembers that this is a war, that Malfoy spends his nights in Malfoy Manor where Luna and Dean are trapped, but the alcohol in his head convinces him that this is not his problem.

Malfoy’s frown deepens. “Potter, you just asked me – ”

Firewhiskey is hot and welcoming as it sloshes its way into Harry’s stomach; it makes the edges of Harry’s vision blur into something warm and pleasant, softens Malfoy’s frown until all Harry can see is the ripe, peachy color of Malfoy’s lips.

“You’re talking a lot, but I don’t care about any of it,” Harry slurs, and Malfoy looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes in exasperation. He’s still standing in the middle of the room, black robes juxtaposed to the shades of gray of the safehouse, and he looks too stiff for Harry’s liking. Harry wants to see Malfoy’s limbs pliant and limber and supple, perhaps spread out against the blue pattern of that armchair –

“You’re an incoherent fuck,” Malfoy says primly. “At this point I’m wishing Granger were here instead; at least she’d be able to understand what I’m saying.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Harry protests, “But I need to know more.”

“I’m doing all I can,” Malfoy says quietly, and in the back of Harry’s mind, he thinks that Malfoy’s eyes have turned dangerously flinty.

“I need to know more,” Harry repeats, and he stumbles upright, leaning dangerously into Malfoy’s space.

Malfoy’s eyes widen just a smidgen. “You’re drunk,” Malfoy says coldly, “And you don’t know what you’re saying, you’re not going to remember any of this – ”

“I know what I’m saying,” Harry breathes, and Malfoy’s lips are so close, his mouth slightly parted. “I want to – ”

Harry doesn’t finish his sentence, instead, he fists his hands into Malfoy’s soft hair, body folding into black Death Eater robes.

“You’re not – ” Malfoy protests, but Harry silences him with his mouth, pushing his tongue between Malfoy’s lips. Harry wants to know more, wants to feel Malfoy’s bones under his hands and he wants to know what makes Malfoy tick, wants to push on every one of Malfoy’s insecurities until they bruise under his touch, and then Harry wants to know how many times he can make Malfoy come, what it will take to have Malfoy scream his name –

Malfoy’s skin is cool and his robes feel like silk under Harry’s insistent touch; firewhiskey thrums through Harry’s veins and the room is so warm. “Potter,” Malfoy says roughly, and Harry almost whines when Malfoy runs two hands down Harry’s chest – his palms cold and tender – down to Harry’s hips where they pull almost possessively.

A soft whisper of silk against skin, one heated gasp and the sound of fire crackling fills the safehouse when Malfoy cants his hips up to Harry’s, the roll of his body dangerously addictive. Lust sloshes with alcohol in Harry’s veins and he feels a pleasurable hum fill his body, warm and tingling in his toes.

“Potter,” Malfoy says again, and his cock is hot, Harry can feel it even through the outline of Death Eater robes, insistent against Harry’s groin. He ruts shamelessly, reveling in the delicious friction that curls his fingers. “Stop,” Harry thinks Malfoy says, but want is sweltering in Harry’s bones, threatens to pull him under.

“Potter,” Malfoy snarls and Harry blinks slowly, pausing his ministrations. Malfoy’s eyes are stony and calculating.

“Malfoy,” Harry says, the name oddly heavy in his mouth. “Draco Malfoy,” he repeats. “Draco. Draco.”

Malfoy growls with irritation but Harry can’t understand why – the rigid line of his prick is outlined by the dark material of his robes, and his hands still clutch at Harry’s hips. “Malfoy,” he breathes, and everything sounds like they’re underwater.

“You have to listen – ”

Harry slides a thigh in between Malfoy’s legs, pressing up against the girth of Malfoy’s erection there –

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Malfoy mutters, “I can’t believe – ”

Harry doesn’t really care about what he believes in at this point, only knows that his body aches for release and Malfoy is right here. He slides his palm around Malfoy’s robes, pressing his hand against Malfoy’s hard prick.

Malfoy pants and Harry’s mouth crashes onto Malfoy’s once more, their teeth clacking and Harry’s lip catching on Malfoy’s front teeth.

Harry spins them around, walks Malfoy forward until he lands on the blue armchair with a sharp exhale.

“Off,” he mutters, hands scrambling around the buttons of Malfoy’s robes. He wants to know the feel of Malfoy’s pulse as it hammers underneath his skin, wants to trace the river of Draco’s veins with his tongue.

Mercifully, Malfoy complies without a word, robes pooling in the armchair underneath him as they fall away to reveal pale pale skin. Harry’s bones have melted into something pliant and warm. The room begins to sway.

Harry pulls off his robes and all but clambers into Malfoy’s lap, the Death Eater’s skin a cool relief in the stifling heat of the room. Their cocks brush against each other and Harry shivers at the friction.

Alcohol has dulled all sense of time, and Harry watches sluggishly as Malfoy spits into his hand, works three fingers inside of himself, cock bobbing as slender hands disappear, reappear, disappear, reappear in and out of Malfoy’s body.

Malfoy’s hair falls into his face and Harry rakes his eyes over the slope of Malfoy’s nose, the pleasant rise and fall of his mouth. His lips part slightly and Harry shivers.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whimpers, dick dribbling precome over his stomach, and Harry’s hands flit over the clean lacerations on Malfoy’s chest, four lines crisscrossing Malfoy’s ribs ruler-straight. “Come on Potter,” Malfoy breathes and his fingers on Harry’s cock push all thoughts of their fight in the bathroom aside.

Harry blinks one, twice, three times and then Malfoy has him pinned onto the armchair; Harry lies supine, with his spine padded by Malfoy’s Death Eater robes. On either side of his hips are Malfoy’s white thighs, bracketing his body like parentheses. Harry’s eyes slide down to the Dark Mark, embossed onto Malfoy’s forearm, black and foreboding.

Malfoy’s spit-covered hand pumps Harry’s dick and Harry’s eyes jolt back to Malfoy’s eyes, sharp and demanding. “Come on Malfoy,” he hears himself say, “Come _on_.”

And Malfoy doesn’t shy away from Harry’s challenge, sliding onto Harry’s prick smoothly and Harry groans around the sensation. Malfoy’s eyes fix onto Harry’s and they are clouded in a way Harry thinks he’s never seen before.

Malfoy fucks himself slow, languidly on Harry’s dick, arse clenching and squeezing around Harry’s length until he’s whining, panting, fingers scratching the armchair with anticipation.

“Please,” Harry whimpers, the muscles in his stomach taut and coiled, ready to release if only Malfoy would hurry the hell up –

Then Malfoy complies. He pulls out, forearms clenched with effort and mouth set into a hard line, then slams back in, Harry’s cock catching on something inside Malfoy’s body. The wet hot friction twists Harry’s gut and he almost forgets how to breathe – all he can think of his Malfoy’s eyes, his slender fingers as he bobs up and down and up and down on Harry’s cock.

Harry’s orgasm ripples through him, and he thinks he hears Malfoy gasp his name when he wraps his palm around his rigid dick, brings himself over the edge.

“Jesus,” Malfoy murmurs under his breath when Harry’s prick slips from his body. Harry’s vision is still hazy, but he is coherent enough to mutter a _Scourgify_. Malfoy picks himself off of Harry’s pliant body, pulling his black robes from the armchair and wrapping himself in them. He looks at Harry curiously, and Harry wonders what he sees.

“He’s dangerous,” Malfoy says finally, and the tone in his voice is raw. Harry blinks slowly. It takes him a minute to realize that Malfoy’s talking about Voldemort. “He’s dangerous and you don’t know what he’s capable of,” Malfoy admits.

“And you do?” Harry slurs. He can’t bring himself to reach for his clothes just yet.

“Not fully,” Malfoy says, pale skin disappearing under black robes. Harry stares at the hint of his clavicles as they peek out from under his robes. “But I’m closer than anyone else,” he says softly. Malfoy Vanishes the two firewhiskey bottles with a flick of his wand.

Malfoy Apparates away without another word, leaving Harry gaping dumbly in his wake.

-

An otter-shaped Patronus interrupts Harry’s hangover the next morning.

He rightens up from his precarious drooping on the blue armchair in McGonagall’s safehouse. His head is throbbing and he feels like his brain’s about to split, but Harry clenches his fists as he listens to Hermione’s Patronus.

“Found the sword from the hat. Destroyed the locket. One more down. Everyone safe,” it says and Harry’s chest pangs around the familiar rhythm of Hermione’s voice. He imagines Hermione, Neville, and Ginny crowded around the Horcrux, eyes fierce and blazing and he feels a surge of pride.

-

The days have begun to melt into each other, the only thing punctuating the end of Harry’s weeks is Malfoy’s systematic visits late on Friday evenings.

The shadows under Malfoy’s eyes grow darker, week by week but it doesn’t stop the tendril of doubt from festering in Harry’s belly, ubiquitous and omnipresent.

This particular Friday, Harry has set aside Malfoy’s meticulous notes on magical healing properties of Re’em’s blood and stands in the kitchen. He has a can of beans heating over the stove and a plain tortilla on a plate when Malfoy Apparates into the living room with a crack.

“’M in the kitchen,” he calls out.

“That smells positively vile,” Malfoy’s mouth curves when he enters the kitchen. Today he wears a perfectly tailored suit with a black button-down, blond hair spilling over his collar. His tight fitting jacket accentuates the shape of his shoulders, of his slim waist and long arms and Harry has to force himself to look back at his beans.

“What else am I going to eat? This house is in the middle of nowhere,” Harry says.

Malfoy opens his mouth as if to argue, then clearly thinks better of it. _We’re using him until we don’t need him anymore_ , Hermione had said, and at the thought of this, Harry grips the handle of the pot a little tighter.

“The Dark Lord speaks less and less of you every day,” Malfoy says finally, and Harry looks up sharply, taken aback by the lack of malice in his voice.

Malfoy stares out the window, at undulating fields of grain and past, where the horizon stretches for miles.

“Before, he demanded that I tell him where you were hiding.”

A chill runs down Harry’s spine.

“I convinced him that it would be a rash decision, and he agreed.” Malfoy looks out the window still, hands in his pockets. “He knows that the locket was destroyed.”

Harry remains silent. The doubt in his belly is still there, just a whisper, but palpable enough to remind Harry of its presence.

“And he also knows that you are hiding, in a safehouse.” Malfoy turns from the window, fixes Harry with an unreadable look.  “I believe he thinks that Neville Longbottom may be the Chosen One,” Malfoy says, and all of Harry’s suspicions come reeling back.

“And you?” Harry’s mouth is dry. “What do you think?”

“I spent six years of my life calling you bloody Saint Potter, what makes you think I’m going to change my mind now?” Malfoy’s lips pull into a tight-lipped smile and Harry lets a gush of air escape from his lungs.

It feels strange to be standing here, doing something as banal as cooking beans from a tin can when Neville, Hermione and Ginny are out somewhere in the middle of fuck knows where, when Ron is fighting against the Carrows at Hogwarts. It feels strange to be having a civil conversation with Malfoy, of all people. Harry continues stirring his beans.

“Either way, the Dark Lord doesn’t care,” Malfoy continues, turning back toward the window, “Nowadays he’s more obsessed with his time travel than anything else.”

“Has he found a string yet?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “No, but I believe he doesn’t intend on wasting his time trying to find one.”

Harry feels the blood drain from his face. “So what does he intend to do?”

“Magna motus,” Malfoy says and he begins to pace back and forth, within the confines of the kitchen. “An intent used to harness natural energy, gravity being among them.”

“And so,” Harry swallows, “Using this – this magna motus, he’d be able to bring gravity together?”

“Creating his own cosmic strings, essentially,” Malfoy nods curtly. “But magna motus is an action so old, many question its authenticity, and even if it was possible, the amount of power and precision needed to create something like a cosmic rift would be immense – ”

“The Elder wand,” interjects Harry. “He’d be looking for the Elder wand.”

Malfoy frowns, “Isn’t that just – ”

“It might not be,” Harry says quickly, filling Malfoy in on the information that Xenophilius Lovegood had disclosed to Hermione, Neville, and Ginny.

“And so if the tale of the Three Brothers is true,” Malfoy says slowly.

“Then that’s what You-Know-Who would be looking for,” Harry finishes. “It all makes sense.”

But the lines of Malfoy’s face are still pulled into a frown. “If he returned to the past, and killed both you and Neville, then – ”

“Then he’d eliminate any chances of him not winning. It’d be a foolproof plan for him,” Harry mutters.

Malfoy murmurs something under his breath, and his eyes have clouded over. Harry frowns. “What?”

“The repercussions of traveling that far back in time,” Malfoy shakes his head, “The Ministry reinforces the rules on time travel for a reason. By going backwards by fifteen years, the Dark Lord could go through consequences that no one has ever dreamed of – I don’t – ”

Malfoy trails off, and then notices Harry looking at him. The lines of Malfoy’s face are creased with worry and Harry wants to kiss them off his face.

“What?”

“You,” Harry replies simply, and Malfoy looks at him as if he’s grown another head.

“What are you on about now, Potter? Did you drink yourself into a stupor?”

“No,” Harry says, contemplative. He leans back on the kitchen counter behind him, lets his eyes flit over Malfoy’s suit-clad form. “I just wonder about you sometimes,” and at this, Malfoy visibly bristles.

“I didn’t ask to work with you, Potter. In fact, I’d much have preferred to work with Granger if she weren’t off running around with Weaselette and Longbottom.” Malfoy begins, clearly getting worked up, and Harry feels a tinge of amusement.

“The Dark Lord knows everything that I’ve told you and you know everything that I’ve told him, and the only difference now is that you know where my loyalties lie.”

Harry shakes his head. “I think in the beginning I was unsure of you. You and your loyalties,” he starts. The unusually peaceful quiet in the safehouse has loosened Harry’s tongue and he speaks with little thought.

“And now?” Malfoy challenges.

“And now I think that I don’t really know,” Harry tilts his head. “You could be fooling all of us for all we know. You’re an accomplished Occulumens to be hiding memories from You-Know-Who; who knows what you’re hiding from us.”

Malfoy opens his mouth but Harry speaks over him.

“But I don’t think you’ll hurt me. Or any of us for that matter.”

“And what evidence have you for this?” Malfoy sneers.

“Nothing,” Harry says, hates the way his voice curls into something mild and dulcet. “I can just feel it.”

“You can just, _feel_ it,” Malfoy smiles nastily, his lips thin. “You’re an idiot to think that, Potter,” he says and Harry shrugs, doesn’t try to explain the way he can read Malfoy’s hesitancy like words on a page, the way his eyes say more about him than any expression ever did.

“You’re probably right.”

Malfoy looks at him for a second more. Then, before he Apparates out, “Turn off your bloody stove, Potter, your beans are burning.”

-

Harry stands in the middle of a field, tall grass swishing gently around his ankles. Around him is an endless plain of crop, waving gently in the zephyr. He feels oddly at ease with himself. The world is blissfully quiet and tranquil. Harry wonders if he’ll die soon.

He wears silk black robes but no shoes, his feet digging into dirt. The air is slightly cool and Harry feels nothing in particular. He takes in a deep breath when the sunlight refracts and his dream shifts without a sound.

He stands in Dumbledore’s office, and a prophecy sits on the Professor’s desk, swirling in a sphere of spun glass. _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches._

“Harry?” Neville calls from behind him, Gryffindor sword hanging from his belt, “Harry, mate.”

“Neville,” Harry says, and his voice sounds distant. Neville smiles and he morphs into Dumbledore.

“Harry,” Dumbledore smiles, “It will be safe for you here.”

Harry looks around, actions sluggish, and he’s back in the safehouse, ominous gray walls almost suffocating. “You will stay here, until you’re needed, Harry.” And then his features melt into someone far paler, pointy with ice cold eyes.

“Harry?” a voice calls and it sounds familiar, maybe like Hermione.

Malfoy stares back at Harry, his expression raw.

“Harry?” a hand pushes on Harry’s shoulders, and Harry wakes, blinks back the last images of Malfoy from his mind.

“Ginny?” Harry attempts to sit upright. “Why – why are you here?”

Her features are gaunt, lips pulled into a tight smile.

She speaks in a rush, words blending together. “The prisoners escaped from Malfoy Manor; we don’t know how, but Luna and Dean and Griphook are out and they’re at Shell Cottage.”

Harry blinks. “But you’re supposed to be – why are you – ”

“The cup, Harry, the cup is in Lestrange’s vault and we can use Griphook to help us get in – we have the sword and – ”

Ginny talks as Harry pulls on his clothes, runs a hand through his hair. She speaks about Xenophilius Lovegood and how he’d told them his daughter was at Malfoy Manor, the tale of the Three Brothers, and Harry’s head spins, overwhelmed with information. Her eyes are burning but the lines of her face are gaunt and her fingers tremble slightly.

“There must’ve been inside help at the Manor; there was no way they could’ve broken out by themselves,” Ginny is explaining and Harry thinks of Malfoy, of the way his tongue slips from between his lips when he hesitates.

They Apparate to Shell Cottage. It stands alone on a cliff overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells and whitewashed. The ebb and flow of the sea permeate the grounds like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature.

“Harry!” a chorus of voices welcome him and it feels strange to see so many people at once, after seeing nothing but Malfoy and four gray walls for the past few weeks. There is Bill and Fleur, Dean Thomas, Hermione and Neville, and Harry embraces them all, heart suddenly full and heavy.

“Oh god, Harry,” Hermione murmurs and her hair smells like cinnamon and pumpkin, like the Gryffindor common room on Christmas morning.

“Harry,” Neville says warmly. His arms have gotten ropey and Harry’s gaze lingers on the smooth expanse of his forehead, shakes his hand firmly. Harry begins to feel something tingle in his gut when someone spins him around.

Dean Thomas has grown about an inch or two, clasps Harry’s shoulder firmly and murmurs, “Good to see you ,Harry.”

“You too Dean,” Harry manages.

“We thought we wouldn’t even see you again, Harry,” Neville admits. “McGonagall wouldn’t tell anyone where you were.”

“I – ” Harry begins.

“’Arry,” Fleur’s hair is still long and silky, “When was the last time you had a decent meal? You look dreadful.”

Dinner is a noisy affair. Nothing compared to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, or Christmas at the Burrow, but noisy nevertheless. Dean and Luna – lovely Luna – are subdued, but when Harry glances at them over his bowl full of clam chowder, they both smile at him.

Ginny, Neville, and Bill are loud. Their boisterous laughter and ebullient expressions warm Harry’s chest with something akin to reminiscence; he tries to laugh along but all he feels is an astounding amount of relief that at some of them can have a good laugh, war be damned.

Griphook is nowhere to be seen, and when he leans in to ask Hermione about it, she smiles faintly and tells him that the goblin is resting upstairs.

Luna has slipped from the dinner table when Fleur begins to clear their bowls. Harry begins to start after her, but Neville asks him to stay, and he and Ginny and Hermione fill everyone in – with a surprising amount of tact – on their quest without revealing it’s true nature.

Hermione describes Voldemort – Harry is quick to let everyone know that his name is taboo – and his relationship with Grindelwald. Harry listens, rapt, as Neville describes stumbling upon the Gryffindor sword in a frozen pond, his descent into the ice. Ginny retells the tale of the Three Brothers and the Deathly Hallows and that’s when Harry’s head begins to swim. Fleur has already excused herself politely and Harry wants to do the same, but knows that he might not get another opportunity to talk to his friends after they leave.

Dean Thomas concludes with his description of how he found Neville, Ginny and Hermione in the basement of Malfoy Manor, and how Dobby broke them out. Before Harry can ask more about that, Bill asks, “So what now then?”

Hermione takes a shaky breath. “Well, when Bellatrix Lestrange was questioning us, she – ” Hermione trails off and Ginny picks up for her.

“She seemed very concerned about her vault, so we’ve reason to suspect that – that something of importance might be there,” her eyes flit almost imperceptibly over Dean and Bill.

“Griphook,” Neville begins excitedly, “Griphook can help us!” and the lot quickly begins to discuss their next course of action; Hermione taps her chin with her wand, interjecting once in a while as Ginny and Neville work out the semantics. Bill interjects once or twice, mostly with reservations on trusting Griphook. Harry has little to contribute to the conversation.

“Well,” Hermione concludes, her eyes brighter than they were at the beginning of dinner, “This is progress.”

“Progress? This is a plan,” Ginny insists, and the two girls exchange a smile.

“I dunno about you lot,” Neville stifles a yawn, “But I’m rather eager to hit the sack.”

“Yes of course,” Bill says, standing up. Harry suppresses a wince when the legs of his chair scrape against the wooden floor. “Harry, I can show you to your room.”

The other three murmur their good nights, and head to their respective rooms.

“Bill,” Harry says, hesitantly, as they leave the warmth of the dining room, past the kitchen and up a flight of stairs. “D’you think that Luna’d still be up? I just wanted – ”

“Of course,” Bill says cheerfully. Bill sweeps him along a hallway, down a set of simple but elegant stairs. He stops in front of a beige-colored door. “This is Luna’s room. She should still be up.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Harry says, and the Weasley smiles crookedly. Suddenly Harry aches around Ron’s absence. “You can take the room right next to her, Harry.” His understanding smile reverberates in Harry’s chest.

“Luna?” Harry calls, knocking on the door once. He watches Bill step back down the stairs.

“Is that you Harry? Come on in.” Harry steps through the door and the room is softly lit by candlelight.

Luna sits at her desk, papers spread over the surface. She has a quill in one hand and a handful of Fizzing Whizzbees in the other and looks the same as she always has. “Hello. You don’t look too well Harry.”

“Haven’t been outside in a while,” he admits and takes a seat next to Luna. She’s doodling on the papers, drawing slender fingers and a Muggle pen. Harry thinks of their conversations back at Hogwarts, what seemed like a lifetime ago, thinks of rain pounding on castle windows and warm brick walls.

“McGonagall really ought to let you out more often,” Luna murmurs.

Harry shrugs. “She has her reasons.”

Luna hums absentmindedly, and Harry finds himself full of that strange sense of composure.

“Luna,” he finds himself asking. “How exactly did you find your way out of Malfoy Manor?”

“I told this to Bill already,” Luna says dreamily. “The Death Eater that was supposed to watch us came late to his shift and Dobby found us just in time to Apparate us out.”

Harry watches as Luna sketches a delicate wrist, connects fingers to a palm.

“It was him wasn’t it,” Harry says finally. The sounds of quill rasping against paper fill the room. “Draco came to help you, didn’t he?”

A faint smile comes across Luna’s face.  “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I promised him I wouldn’t say anything.”


	5. five

 

When Draco sees the Lovegood girl’s hair, he thinks of Narcissa Malfoy.

The mistake lingers for just a minute, but it evokes enough memory to have Draco double-take, glancing back at the dungeon. She sits against a wall, hair fanned out behind her. There is also Dean Thomas, another Gryffindor, a goblin and the wandmaker.

Draco, like most of the rest of the Death Eaters, takes his turn carrying a tray downstairs, a single candle floating gently by his side. His movements feel automatic, as if his arms and legs are tied to puppeteering strings, moving of their own accord.

Nevertheless, Draco helps Pettigrew more often than not. It’s simple. The work is monotonous, and there are worse places to be.

At first, the Lovegood girl watches him with a bland sort of curiosity, eyes wide. Dean curls up in the corner, blood seeping from a wound in his shoulder, and Ollivander and Griphook watch him with blank eyes.

He tucks two bits of peat moss underneath the prisoners’ tray of food, doesn’t meet Luna’s wide eyes.

The next time he comes down, the blood on the floor of the dungeon has coagulated and Dean sits upright long enough for Draco to meet his grateful gaze.

Days bleed into weeks and when Draco sees Luna’s fingers flutter in the air, he brings her paper napkins and a Muggle pen tucked in his sleeve.

He tells the Dark Lord that the Mudblood, the blood-traitor, and Longbottom have gone traipsing through England on a wild goose chase, allows the memories to flit back to mind.

“The prophecy could’ve applied to two, either myself or Neville Longbottom,” Potter insists, head shaking in disbelief. “Even if he goes back to kill me, Neville would be left to fulfill the prophecy! It wouldn’t work.”

Click.

Potter’s eyes glaze into something similar to indifference. “There’s only so much one person can do.” His words sound like something he’s been repeating in his head, over and over again, trying to convince himself that it is true. “And apparently, it was in Dumbledore’s wishes that I stay away from the war until it was absolutely necessary.”

Draco peers at Potter. His face is smothered with grime, and dirt is smeared on his neck. “Apparently the old man had wishes for us both.”

Click.

The Dark Lord sits at the end of the dining table, fingers entangled in a long stem of a glass of wine.

“How quaint,” he murmurs, and Draco dips his head. Pettigrew scampers into the room, carrying a heavy bottle of wine. “Would you like one, Draco?” the Dark Lord asks.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Draco says stiffly.

“Leave the bottle here, Wormtail.”

Pettigrew bows his head low, leaves the room without another sound.

The Dark Lord stands, lips curled. “I don’t believe I have much use for the prisoners anymore.” He brushes the crease from his robes. “Do you, Draco?” and the look in his eye tells Draco more than he needs to know.

He doesn’t dare to wonder why the Dark Lord would allow him this, but Draco simply smiles in turn, inclining his head as if he understands.

Voldemort leaves quietly. The doors to the dining hall swing shut, their shadows drawn long across the floor.

Draco finds a seat in the chair at the head of the table. He surveys the view before him, imagines what Voldemort sees when he looks at the table before him. Perhaps two years before, Draco might have felt a surge of power. Now, after seeing what he has, Draco feels only a shudder run down his spine.

There comes a quiet knocking at the door.

Draco looks up in time to see Dolohov standing in the door frame, leaning against the wood structure.

_Fucking Death Eater scum._

“My, Draco,” Dolohov murmurs quietly but his voice carries all the same. “You’re climbing up the ranks fast, aren’t you?”

Draco wants to stiffen but he keeps his face expressionless. Dolohov walks without sound, strides to where Draco sits and sits in the chair to his right. From his robes, Dolohov draws a small, opaque vial and places it onto the table.

“Rabastan has found a place swarming with Mudbloods and he wants to try out his new curse tonight. Come and watch?”

“No, I think not,” Draco says almost apologetically, swiping the vial and tucking it into his robes. “Rabastan’s curses always struck me as rather drab.” The vial is still warm to the touch, burns a figurative hole in Draco’s robes.

Dolohov lets out a low laugh. “Holed up in your room to take more notes, more like.”

Draco holds back a stiff retort, schools his expression into something smoother. “You’re just upset you aren’t in my room as often as you like.”

“I think we should change that, hm?” Dolohov purrs and Draco clutches the vial in his robes.

-

“Something’s not adding up.”

Potter frowns. “We’re doing all we can,” his mouth small. Somewhere, tucked into his frown, are two Death Eater raids on the Burrow, three Death Eater attacks on Wizarding London and countless lives lost between both sides.

“Not with the battles,” Draco waves his hand dismissively. He paces in front of the fireplace. “Re’em’s blood and plangentine both replenish health and have healing properties,” he rehashes, mostly for his own sake.

“Right, and you’re suspicious because?”

“The Dark Lord doesn’t like to rely on other things to make him immortal, don’t you remember?” Draco snaps waspishly. “Horcruxes? Remember those?”

Potter opens his mouth but Draco talks over him, robes billowing around his ankles as he paces. His legs scream for him to sit down but he ignores them.

“The Dark Lord wants to create a single mass or a singular event so great, he can create a disruption in spacetime, and therefore travel back in time, most likely by bringing two cosmic rifts together.”

“How?” Potter interrupts and Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. “He doesn’t have the Elder Wand and he hasn’t mastered Magna Motus.”

“Not that we know of,” Draco interjects. “He could very well be in possession of both of these things, but has chosen not to reveal them yet.”

Potter lets out a frustrated growl, runs both hands through his hair. He lies on the ugly couch in McGonagall’s safe house. Potter’s confinement has paled his skin, and his hipbones jut out right over the lip of his Muggle jeans, where his shirt rides up as his arms rise over his head, tugging on his hair.

“But. I’ve been conducting some research of my own,” Draco starts, and Potter glances at him.

“Yeah?” His lips are full and roseate. Do not –

Draco glares.

His bones feel like cement in his body and his chest feels oddly hollow. He begins to make his way to the kitchen in search of a drink, with no determination or anticipation for anything at all other than the bitter taste of alcohol. “It might be easier for the Dark Lord to send someone back, to do the deed for him,” Draco says as he wanders into the kitchen, raising his voice only slightly.

Draco hears Potter scoff. “That’s not like him. He would want to do it himself. He’d want to kill me – or Neville – himself.”

“Perhaps,” Draco muses, rummaging through the pantry. He finds a carton of milk from the last decade and a shriveled lemon. His head pounds. “But it’s also possible he doesn’t want to kill anyone at all.” Draco’s hand wraps around a solid glass bottle at the very back of the wooden cabinet. He lets out a hum of satisfaction when the label reads _Hicks & Healy_. Briefly, Draco thinks this might not be a good idea, but his muscles throb and Draco just wants a goddamn drink.

The amber liquid sloshes in its bottle when Draco makes his way back to the living room; Potter eyes the bottle from his perch on the ugly couch.

Draco speaks only after he’s situated himself on the blue armchair, Conjured two fat glass tumblers from the air, and poured two fingers for himself and Potter.

“It could be possible,” Draco admits, sipping at his whiskey, “For the Dark Lord to be sending someone to the future, and then having them map out possibilities, or,” he waves his free hand in the air vaguely, “Whatever, and then coming back.”

Potter snorts. “He wouldn’t have someone – someone _scout_ out the future for him. It’s not like him. You-Know-Who wants glory and a grandiose win; he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t want to snoop around in time to try and find a clever way to win.” He swills the contents of his glass. Draco wants to cradle his head in his hands but maintains his rigid posture, sitting at the very edge of the armchair.

“Potter,” Draco begins very patiently, “Think about this.”

“Think about what? It makes sense, for him to travel back and kill me and Neville, then come back.”

Draco takes another gulp of his whiskey and grimaces.

“Time travel is dangerous,” Draco starts and very pointedly ignores Potter when he rolls his eyes. “There are thousands upon thousands of factors that are involved in time travel, even when the traveler is merely observing the world he’s traveled to.

“Traveling through time doesn’t eliminate disease, and when different cultures mix, diseases do as well. Traveling through time is perilous and unpredictable; it would be difficult enough to find yourself in a designated time period but even more so to find a way _back_ to the same universe you came from.”

Potter sits up on the couch, t-shirt falling back over his hipbones. His eyes are dull. “Alright alright, so time travel is dangerous.”

“It is,” Draco presses, “And it would be even more dangerous if the traveler interfered with the timeline they’d traveled to.”

Draco finishes the rest of his whiskey and pours himself a little more.

“Ray Bradbury,” Draco continues, “Explored the repercussions of messing with the past in one of his stories.”

Potter’s eyes are dark and his hair is artfully rumpled. Draco fights the urge to run a hand through it.

“Sometime in the future, mankind has invented a time machine, used for entertainment,” he waves his glass in the air, “Hunting dinosaurs and other spectacular things like that. But they were meticulously careful – only killed dinosaurs that they knew would’ve died in minutes anyway. Anyway,” Draco continues, “One day a man strays off the designated path and kills an untagged dinosaur. He comes back to the present day only to find that the world is different – the English language is spoken and spelled differently and a dictator has taken over the country.” Draco tips his glass in Potter’s general direction. “On his boot, the man discovers a dead butterfly.”

“Chaos theory,” Potter interrupts and Draco lets out a noise of affirmation.

“The death of one butterfly and the fate of a nation is completely turned around.” Draco straightens himself up in his armchair a bit. “Make a mark on the past and you leave your footprint across the universe.

“Now imagine the repercussions of killing a person, a very important person. Imagine how the world would change. The world that the Dark Lord – or his Death Eater, whomever – returns to wouldn’t even remotely resemble the one that he had left.”

“And that isn’t a risk that he’d be willing to take.”

“It is also possible,” Draco muses, “That this is all a ruse.”

The empty tumbler dangles in Potter’s hand and his lips look swollen. His face is unreadable.

“That You-Know-Who fed you all of this? Because he knew you’d tell us?”

Draco shrugs. “Just a possibility.”

Potter’s eyes narrow. “It’s also possible that he made this all up _because_ he knew you’d tell us.”

Draco lets his eyes flutter close for just a moment. The darkness is bliss and Draco’s fingers clench around his cold glass.

“I didn’t come here for you to question my loyalties, Potter,” Draco begins, his teeth scraping against impatience tucked under his tongue.

_If an intrepid astronaut were to position herself near the horizon of the rapidly spinning center of a black hole (without falling into its center and possibly being annihilated), she would be treated to a most remarkable form of time travel._

Potter waves his hand through the air. “’s fine,” he mumbles. “Just a bit easy you know,” he lunges for the bottle of amber whiskey and refills his glass. “For you to come back like this, accept the role that Dumbledore so fittingly left aside for.” When he drinks, his eyes catch Draco’s and Draco watches as the alcohol slides down the pale column of Potter’s throat, watches the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

This feels too much like a dangerous game and Draco has no cards to play; he’s bluffing his way through with cold, flint words molded into daggers, but whiskey is a weak defense at best and Draco does not want to lose.

Draco Malfoy wants to live.

He does not answer, polishes off the rest of his whiskey in lieu of a response.

Potter reaches for the whiskey bottle again and sometimes Draco forgets that they are just eighteen-year-old boys, caught in a war that seems larger than the world.

_In a brief period of her personal time she would witness an immensely long time span in the universe beyond the black hole horizon; her spacetime region would be so far removed from the external time of the surrounding cosmos that she conceivably could witness thousands, millions, or billions of years elapse._

Potter looks at Draco and his eyes are sharp.

“What about you, then?” Draco shifts in his armchair, the words falling easily from his lips, spilling onto the carpet between the blue armchair and the ugly couch. “Is the Order so desperate to accept a Death Eater among its ranks?”

“We’ll do what is necessary,” Potter shrugs. Draco feels choler rising in his chest and tamps it down.

“Your motives are questionable as well,” Draco swirls his whiskey. “One might think you’re setting me up.”

“As what?”

“As an expendable contrivance.”

Potter’s eyes are darker than Draco has ever seen them. “How can we not?” he challenges, “It’s not as if you can expect us to believe that you’ve changed so quick.”

Something twists in his gut and Draco suddenly feels exhausted. He pours himself more whiskey, can’t find the energy within himself to Apparate back to the Manor, where Dolohov waits.

_This is a kind of natural time travel; however, it severely restricts the activity of the astronaut/time traveler and she is limited to "travel" into the future. There are solutions to General Relativity that allow natural time travel into the past, but unlike rotating black holes, they remain only theoretical possibilities._

The fire dances in the fireplace, flames curling and gyrating. Alcohol rests comfortably in Draco’s stomach, pulsing slowly throughout his body with every beat of his heart. Draco’s head buzzes, but not in an uncomfortable way.

“It is to be expected then,” Draco says slowly, “That you’re using me as much as I’m using you.”

Draco sees Potter hauling himself up from the couch, moving toward the blue armchair, and does nothing.

The room starts to tilt when the hands of the clock on the wall have chased each other to half past eleven; there’s less than half of the bottle of whiskey left.

The fire hisses when Potter wraps two sweaty fingers around Draco’s wrists; the windows rattle as wind howls outside when Potter presses his lips underneath Draco’s jaw; the legs of the armchair creak in protest when Potter all but climbs into Draco’s lap, a pile of heavy bones and sharp elbows, pushing Draco back into the armchair.

Perhaps, if there was no alcohol in his system, Draco would push him off, wouldn’t let Potter sneak his tongue into Draco’s mouth. Perhaps, Draco wouldn’t feel the wet slip and slide of Potter’s tongue against the inside of his cheek, the sting of his incisors against Draco’s lip.

But the whiskey thrums through his veins with every breath and the beast inside Draco’s gut has been deprived of too many things for too long. He is tired and there is no time for things like this during a war, but Draco Malfoy is a fucking coward, prone to making these kinds of mistakes.

Desire and whiskey slosh in Draco’s stomach in a mélange. Potter’s hands are hot and needy underneath Draco’s clothes and his tongue is insistent in Draco’s mouth.

Draco snakes one hand up to Potter’s jaw, feels Potter’s pulse hammering under his skin with two delicate fingers and it would be so easy to tighten his grip – to pull the wand from his robes and press it to Potter’s jugular vein –

_Do not –_

“Come to my room,” Potter murmurs over the soft crackling of the fire, interrupting Draco’s thoughts.

And something flares in the back of Draco’s mind but in all honesty, he doesn’t know what he is doing, doesn’t know what side he is on; all he really knows is that he wants to live and he wants to fuck the living daylights out of Potter, and so far, this is two for two.

-

Friday evening finds Draco Malfoy shoving his hands underneath Harry Potter’s cotton t-shirt, roving over the sharp jut of his hipbones, the clean lines of his ribs and fingers pinching around a dusky nipple. Desire flares in Draco’s gut, spreading over his skin like an itch, filling his body with fever.

-

Late Friday evening finds Draco Malfoy with his ankles twisted in threadbare sheets, black dress shirt rucked up around his ribs and black dress pants nowhere to be found. His head rests comfortably on a worn pillow and his breath comes quick.

Potter curls into a parenthesis to Draco’s left, face bereft of glasses and expression oddly slack. In sleep, his features slacken into something complacent and subdued.

Rain whispers outside Potter’s room in the safehouse and wind curls against the glass windows. The room is dark, save for moonlight leaking through wooden window slats. The world is still and time is measured only by the rise and fall of Draco’s chest as he breathes.

The air of the room is cool and the sheets rasp against Draco’s bare skin as he shifts without sound.

Draco does not know how long he lies there, listening to the sound of rain splattering onto glass. He thinks of his room back at the Manor, cold and uninviting and cannot find the energy within himself to leave the warmth of Potter’s bed.

He knows, with every fiber of his being, that this _thing_ that he has with Potter will end horribly – and yet, Draco scowls to himself, he can’t find strength within himself to push him away, to tell him to stop fucking pretending –

Draco’s thumb brushes against the fat signet ring on his finger.

_Do not –_

Abruptly, Draco pushes himself from the bed, scooping the rest of his clothes from the floor.

He Disapparates as the rain begins to pound, the loud crack splitting the silence in half like lightning cracking open the sky.

-

It’s easy – stupidly, stupidly easy – to free the Lovegood girl and the goblin and the Gryffindor.

Draco murmurs something into Pettigrew’s ear before he’s meant to take down a tray of food to the dungeon, and while Pettigrew scampers around Malfoy Manor, searching for Snape, Draco slips into the dungeons himself. The Lovegood girl has a shard of mirror in her hand and Draco meets her gaze for a second, inclines his head just slightly, then returns to the library.

Yaxley bursts in a second later and Draco tells him to kindly fuck off with a sneer, tells him that no, why on earth would Draco be in the dungeons at the same time the prisoners just so happened to Apparate out with a house elf?

The Dark Lord isn’t overly upset over the loss, merely waves his hand and says that he has more pressing matters at hand. And that is the last of it.

-

Sunlight filters gently into Draco’s bedroom, falling on a silver box of elegant quills and an inky poster of the Akihito School of Magic. In its glass confinement, Draco’s Hebridean Black model has curled into itself, green eyes dull.

A copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ lies on Draco’s desk, cracked open to the chapter detailing Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s relationship. Draco taps his quill absentmindedly on his chin. The Manor is quiet today and Draco feels a rush of nervousness.

Draco’s drumming his fingers on his desk when he hears a soft tapping at his window.

He opens the glass and unties a piece of parchment from the scrawny brown owl. He runs an absentminded hand over the owl’s head while reading the letter.

Scrawled in neat, slanted handwriting are only a handful of words _._ Draco scans them quickly.

“Laconic, isn’t he,” Draco murmurs to Zabini’s owl and it hoots dolefully in response.

The owl flies from Malfoy Manor with no reply tied to its leg.

Draco sweeps the biography into the drawer underneath his desk, straightens his robes before stepping into the Floo in his bedroom.

He is greeted by the sound of silence when the green flames of the Floo finally die down. The Zabini household is grandiose but eerily quiet. A house elf scuttles up to Draco.

“Mister Malfoy, sir, Mister Zabini is in his study.”

Draco sweeps across the white marble floor of the main hallway, up a marble set of stairs to the second room on the left. Draco raps his knuckles on the chalky door once, then turns the handle.

“I’ve sent you six owls since July. Pansy sent many more, I’m sure. And not a single response. To either of us.”

Blaise wears grief wonderfully well, holds it around him like a shield and paints it onto his sleeves. His eyes are gaunt but his robes are pressed and clean. Draco rakes his gaze over the broad strokes of Zabini’s shoulders, the way his inky robes cling tightly to his frame.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Draco says stiffly.

“And I yours,” Blaise says, eyes searching.

Blaise’s room is unusually bare, his desk swept free of parchment and clothes packed into a leather portmanteau. Beams of sunlight fill the space of the room.

“Just back for the Easter hols then?” Draco comments lightly and Blaise lets out a small noise of disbelief.

“It’s been months, Draco. Pansy’s been worrying and you, quite frankly, you look like shit,” Blaise cuts across.

Draco sniffs.

Blaise steps closer to Draco, snags his fingers in the spill of Draco’s sleeve. “You told us you were coming back to Hogwarts.”

Blaise’s room is white and clean, antiseptic and sterile. Draco wants to shiver with premonition but he cannot place why. _Do not –_

“Things changed,” Draco says primly.

“Did you change?” Blaise counters and Draco takes a step back instinctively. Blaise’s hand falls back to his side, curling into a fist.

“You know the answer to that,” Draco says blandly, and he carefully weaves together a mental barrier around his thoughts.

_Regular solids (regular polyhedra, or Platonic solids which were described by Plato) are solid geometric figures, with identical regular polygons (such as squares) as their faces, and with the same number of faces meeting at every corner (vertex). Euclid proved that there are only five regular convex polyhedra._

“There have been rumors – ” Blaise begins and Draco thinks of his four-poster bed at Hogwarts, the gold utensils in the Great Hall and the sound of lakewater lapping against the castle walls.

“Do you really think the Dark Lord would allow me to stay at Malfoy Manor if I’d defected?” Draco sneers and walks to Blaise’s windowsill. White lace curtains frame the glass and Draco resists the urge to touch.

“I think that you’d have the ability to convince him to let you stay,” Blaise rumbles and the knot in Draco’s gut tightens. He turns around. Blaise’s eyes are blatantly curious and Draco begins to feel the first curls of petty anger. He turns back to the window.

_The five Platonic Solids were thought to represent the five basic elements of the world; earth, air, fire, water, and the universe._

Outside, sunlight spills onto green grass. Roses are budding at the edge of the Zabinis’ front yard. Spring has arrived.

“When is Pansy coming?” Draco says a moment later, voice stiff.

“Soon.”

_The tetrahedron has four triangular faces, the cube six square faces, the octahedron eight triangular faces, the dodecahedron twelve pentagonal faces, and the icosahedron twenty triangular faces._

“And I suppose you won’t be returning to Hogwarts after this, will you?”

Draco turns to catch Blaise’s shake of the head.

“Mum wouldn’t want me to stay here. You know that.”

And Draco nods. “France?”

“Italy,” Blaise corrects, “I’ll be staying with my aunt there.”

Hiding with your aunt, Draco wants to correct him, but remains silent.

Draco runs a hand over the sill of the window before making his way to the foot of Blaise’s bed and sitting there. He remembers coming here as a very young boy, entranced by the cleanliness of the Zabini estate. Now, Draco decides that the white marble and white walls and clean sheets are a thin veneer, a façade to hide something much darker.

“It’s getting worse,” Draco answers Blaise’s unrealized question. “There are more and more raids every week and it won’t stop getting worse.” Draco brushes a piece of lint from his knee.

Blaise lets out a long breath, comes to sit next to Draco. The bed creaks under their combined weight and Draco’s mind flits back to late nights in the Slytherin dormitory.

_Plato proposed that four of these solids built the Four Elements: sharp-pointed tetrahedra give the sting of Fire, smooth-sliding octahedra give easily-parted Air, droplety icosahedra give Water, and lumpish, packable cubes give Earth._

“Do you think I’m a coward?” Blaise asks a heartbeat later. His presence is familiar and warm next to Draco.

“No,” Draco says truthfully. “I would’ve done the same.”

“But you aren’t.”

Draco is still.

_The dodecahedron, at last, is the shape of the Universe as a whole. Later Aristotle emended Plato’s system, suggesting that dodecahedra provide a fifth essence—the space-filling Ether._

“Draco!” comes a shrill feminine voice, drifting through Blaise’s open door and interrupting Draco’s thoughts. Pansy Parkinson follows a moment later, flaunting around the corner and halting abruptly outside the room. Unlike Zabini, Pansy isn’t wearing her school robes; instead, she dons a brown-black lacy pair of shorts and a billowing dark top, loose sleeves pooling around her wrists. Her nails are painted gray.

“Am I interrupting something?” she says slyly, leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes linger on the space – or lack thereof – between Draco and Blaise.

“Hello, Pansy,” Draco says and she comes into the room, pulls out the chair by Blaise’s desk and situates herself into it neatly.

And Draco feels peculiar, now that two of his closest childhood friends are here. Pansy still smiles with her teeth, crossing and uncrossing her legs; Blaise’s hand snakes behind Draco and rests at the very small of his back, a familiar weight. It’s as if nothing has changed, save for the fact that the green and silver of the Slytherin common room have morphed into Blaise’s antiseptic and monochromatic bedroom.

“I’m surprised you’re still here Blaise,” Pansy says, smoothing over the lace material of her skirt with her palms.

“I couldn’t leave without getting everything in order,” Blaise says and Pansy hums in agreement. She turns her gaze onto Draco. “And you?” she says pleasantly. Pansy looks healthy, her skin café au lait. “I thought you’d be spreading camembert on a baguette in a riverside bistro by now.”

“I’m staying,” Draco says and Pansy crosses then uncrosses her legs. Blaise shifts and the bed creaks. The air in the room turns cool.

“Will you ever tell us?” Blaise murmurs and Draco’s bones feel brittle, as if someone could snap his limbs in two with no effort at all. Draco drags his gaze from his clasped palms in his lap, meets Pansy’s determined gaze.

“Not now,” Draco says softly. “I – ” Draco shakes his head, “I can’t. You know – ” he trails off.

Pansy cuts him off. “Just be careful,” she says.

“And you?” Blaise asks. “Are you staying?”

She nods curtly. “I’m staying at Hogwarts.”

And the sudden realization that the three of them would each be going their own way hits Draco like a blow to the gut. Draco realizes that it is very possible that he could never see them again.

The house elf scampers into the room. “Mister Zabini, the kitchens would like to let you know that the luncheon is ready for you and your guests.”

“Thank you, Motty,” Blaise says and he ushers Draco and Pansy from the room, down the hallway and a marble set of stairs to the dining room.

Where the Malfoy Manor is decadent in heavy drapery and Persian rugs, the Zabini household is elegant, all white lace and clean marble. Draco finds a seat to the right of the one at the head of the table, Pansy across from him and Blaise sitting to his left.

Two house elves bring in bowls of chilled cucumber soup, followed by various salads and mezedes. Draco eats quietly and Blaise discusses a few memorable events at their year at Hogwarts.

Blaise is describing how the Carrows came onto the Hogwarts Express to take a few students when Draco pushes the rest of his soup away and leaves his salad untouched. Something acerbic churns in his stomach.

“Draco?” Pansy interrupts Blaise, “Are you alright?”

“’m fine,” he answers. “Not very hungry.”

Blaise keeps his eyes downcast, sips at his soup. Pansy smooths the napkin in her lap.

The rest of lunch is stilted and awkward. Draco’s head pounds and he can’t be bothered to engage himself in Blaise and Pansy’s conversation. The meal draws to an end as Blaise removes his napkin from his lap and places it onto the ivory linen tablecloth.

“We’ll see you off then, Draco,” Blaise stands and Pansy says, “I think you’re sick Draco. I didn’t want to say it but you look positively awful,” as they walk to the living room.

When they reach the ornate, marble fireplace, Pansy murmurs, “Take care, Draco,” into his ear and her fingers press into his ribs, five points pressing insistently into his skin. She presses her cheek against his and Draco catches a whiff of rubbing alcohol. “Write to me as often as you can.” She pulls back and smiles faintly. Draco’s stomach lurches with an impending sense of dread.

She steps back and Blaise falls into her place. He says nothing, just puts one hand on Draco’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. Draco does not meet his eyes.

He steps into the fireplace, Floo ash ready in his palm and sees Pansy and Blaise standing in front of the chaise lounge, watching him. They stand tall and stiff-backed, the same as they always have. Draco’s struck once again by how healthy they look, and nods once to the both of them. His gut twists. It feels far too close to farewell for comfort.

_Do not –_

Draco throws down the ash, green flames erupting around his feet.

“Malfoy Manor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short story Draco mentions is "A Sound of Thunder" by Ray Bradbury.


	6. six

The land here is flat, tall grass rippling in undulating waves that roll into the horizon and beyond. There is neither hill nor bump as far as the eye can see. A murder of crows stains the pale pink-blue sky. The sun begins to slip from its perch and the sky blurs into the horizon.

Friday afternoon finds Harry standing in the middle of the tall grass field. The safehouse is a little ways behind him. His wand rests heavily in the pocket of his Muggle jeans. A crow caws. The warm earth is slightly moist under his bare feet.

For the umpteenth time, he imagines how Hermione, Ginny and Neville are faring. After their hasty departure from Shell Cottage, Harry had returned to the silence of the safehouse, after Hermione’s insistence that he come back. “McGonagall explicitly told us you were to stay there as much as possible,” she had whispered urgently.

Harry wonders if this is what Dumbledore had intended for him.

Wind rustles the tall grass around Harry, carrying a voice from behind him.

“Why the bloody hell are you out here,” Malfoy calls from behind Harry. Another crow caws and Harry squints at the sky. A year ago, Harry would’ve never imagined being here – in the literal middle of nowhere, with only the sounds of the wind and Draco bloody Malfoy complaining to accompany him.

“Imagine my surprise,” Malfoy hisses as he comes closer, “When I Apparate here to find the house completely empty. I thought you were – ”

“How did you do it?” Harry interrupts him. He turns around. Draco wears his customary black dress shirt and slacks and a pinched expression.

“Do what?” he asks. Tall grass brushes gently against Malfoy’s wrists, his forearms, and his hips.

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry narrows his eyes. “How did you break the prisoners out of Malfoy Manor?”

Malfoy blinks. “It wasn’t me,” and the _you idiot_ is implied. “It was our old house elf. Dobby.”

“Malfoy, you and I both know that – ”

“Oh, shut it,” Malfoy snaps and Harry starts to feel the first white-hot rush of anger.

“So what, you think you’re so entitled to your privacy?” Harry retorts. “You’re withholding information – ”

“How do you even know?” Malfoy explodes. “What proof do you have?”

Harry steps closer to Malfoy, ignores the sharp bite of dry grass on the soles of his feet. He resists the urge to fist his palms in Draco’s shirt.

“How else would Dobby’ve known the exact moment to Apparate in and to grab them?”

Malfoy’s mouth twists into an ugly sneer. His eyes are ice. “And what? What do you want me to say to that? Gold star for you, Potter, you’ve got some sense in that fat head of yours. Would you like a trophy?”

“No,” Harry growls, and his hands curl into fists at his sides. “I want to know why you did it.”

Malfoy steps close, dangerously close. His eyes are still so so cold. “Why don’t you tell me? If you’re so interested in my motives, Potter.”

“I don’t know!” Harry explodes. His heart is hammering out of his chest, blood pounding through his veins. “I don’t know what you’re doing, I don’t know what you’re playing – I can’t understand why you’re working with us – ”

Malfoy barks out a cold laugh. This close, Harry can see how thin the skin of his cheeks are, can see the contusions under his eyes where blood vessels have erupted.

“You can’t believe me? Don’t think I can change for the better?” Draco sneers and he crowds into Harry’s space.

“And have you?” Harry challenges. “Have you changed?”

“Who would’ve guessed?” Malfoy nearly bellows over him. “Saint Potter doesn’t believe in second chances, not like old Dumbledore – ”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Harry snarls and he can barely hear himself over the blood rushing through his ears. “You don’t fucking know anything, you – ”

“You what?” Malfoy says and his voice is dangerously low. He takes another step forward and Harry has to tilt his head back slightly to look into his eyes. “What am I, Potter?”

“Get out of my face,” Harry says softly. In the background, a crow caws loudly. “Get out of my _face_ , Malfoy.”

“I don’t think I will,” Malfoy smirks and darts forward, quick as a snake. His hands fist into Harry’s cotton t-shirt and his breath comes hot on Harry’s cheeks. “You don’t know what I am Potter, you don’t fucking know – ”

“What are you then?” Harry retorts. “Huh? Have you changed or are you still the coward you were before?”

Malfoy’s eyes widen a fraction, then narrow into something absolutely murderous. “Fuck you,” he murmurs and Harry doubles over when he feels Malfoy’s fist meet his gut with a solid thump. Pain. Dull, blossoming pain. Suddenly Harry sees golden tall grass and the dark clay tones of the earth.

“Fuck you,” Malfoy repeats.

“Touchy, Malfoy,” Harry wheezes and Malfoy snarls. Harry begins to blink away the blurriness from the edges of his vision when there’s a black smear and Harry feels Malfoy’s knee colliding with his nose with a sickening crunch.

The world blacks out for a split second. Then Harry feels blood dripping from his nose, clogging his nostrils and spilling into the back of his throat. Bright – achingly bright – pain explodes in a cacophony. Harry’s left hand finds his knee, propping up his chest.

“Fuck you,” he thinks Malfoy says.

Viscous blood drips onto the dark earth and Harry, the youngest Seeker of Gryffindor house in a century, finds his wand, whips it from his jeans pocket in a heartbeat.

“ _Bombarda!”_ Harry shouts and there’s a loud bang as both Harry and Malfoy stumble back from the force of the explosion. Harry’s ears ring and he mops the blood from underneath his nose with his wrist. Smoke stings his eyes and Harry can barely breathe over the coagulating blood in his throat.

“ _Incendio!”_ Malfoy bellows and the tall grass to Harry’s immediate left bursts into flames. Harry coughs, smoke curling into his lungs. Adrenaline rushes through his veins and Harry feels _alive –_ blood drips freely from his nose and the pain is searing every time he breathes but he is _alive –_

The tall grass around Harry leaps into the flames; it is breathing in oxygen and spitting out inferno. Harry’s skin feels like it’s going to crisp and he can barely see through the thick smoke; Harry tells himself that this has to do less with addiction and more to do with sanity.

“ _Aguamente,”_ Harry mumbles through a mouthful of blood. The fire around him hisses in protest and dies down with a splutter.

“ _Conjunctivitis!”_ Harry cries at the same moment Draco stands up, points his wand at Harry and shouts, “ _Diffindo!”_

Harry’s arm erupts with sharp pain, and he looks down in time to see a clean and shallow laceration from his wrist to about halfway up his inner forearm. “Fuck,” Harry pants.

Malfoy, across the field, lets out a shriek of pain and bends at the knees, falling onto the ground. Harry breathes shallowly and lets his eyes flutter shut. Smoke still bites his eyes and his forearm throbs. The ground underneath Harry shifts, back and forth, and his ears still ring.

The world rights itself long enough for Harry to point his wand at his nose, gasp, “ _Episkey_ ,” and groan with the discomfort. There’s a pop as Harry’s nose rights itself, and Harry spits out a mouthful of blood onto the charred earth. His forearm screams with agonizing pain.

“ _ulnera_ _sanentur_ ,” Harry murmurs, waving his wand over his left arm and winces as the laceration knits itself back together messily. The acerbic taste of smoke still lingers in Harry’s mouth when he closes the distance between himself and Malfoy.

The blond boy kneels next to a patch of burnt tall grass. His eyes are inflamed and swollen; he fumbles for his wand, which lies a little bit away from him.

Harry steps over a patch of smoking earth, wincing when the muscles in his gut clench in protest. It feels as though a great fist has unfurled its fingers, releasing its iron grip on Harry’s stomach.

“Are we done here?” he coughs out.

“You’re an idiot,” Malfoy hisses and Harry lets out a low groan when he squats in front of Malfoy, pushes the hawthorn wand toward Malfoy’s sprawling fingertips. The earth is scorched and hot underneath Harry’s fingers.

“You’ve told me,” Harry replies drily, as he wraps his hand around Malfoy’s admittedly firm bicep, “Multiple times.”

“Fuck you,” Malfoy pants, although with less fervor than before. Malfoy grabs onto Harry’s shoulder with one hand – his grip as tight as a vise – and holds his wand in the other. Malfoy’s mouth hangs slightly open and there’s a smear of ash across his cheek. His eyelids are pink and swollen, and his hair is messy and disheveled. The skin of his neck is still perfectly pale, begging Harry to bite a ring of bruises onto it.

Suddenly, Malfoy hacks up a dry cough, his fingers digging into Harry’s shoulder, and Harry jolts into action, leading the two of them back to the safehouse. Harry slings an arm around Malfoy’s waist as they walk, tries not to squeeze too tight.

Scorched tall grass crunches under Harry’s feet as they turn back to the safehouse.

“Where did I get you?” Harry asks lowly, as Malfoy’s hand tightens on his arm. When he walks, the blond limps slightly, favoring his left leg.

“I think I fractured my shin after your fucking explosion,” Malfoy growls. His voice is low and gravelly and Harry resists the urge to shiver.

Malfoy tightens his grip on Harry’s arm, his fingers strong as talons, and in response, Harry readjusts his grasp on Malfoy’s hip. The bones of Malfoy’s waist are thin and his skin is burning hot even under his black dress shirt.

“Did my Diffindo get you?” Malfoy pants, as they enter the safehouse.

“Right on the arm,” Harry winces. His head reels and he’s overcome with a sense of vertigo.

“I’ve been meaning to try that for a while,” Malfoy says weakly. He coughs and spits out a mouthful of ash. Malfoy’s hair is deathly pale and looks silky. Harry pants. His head pounds.

The two of them stumble into the safehouse. After they enter, the dilapidated front door creaks behind them. Malfoy’s chest convulses violently and he doubles over; Harry reckons he can feel his bones shaking through his skin.

Harry watches Malfoy hack up a mouthful of ash before pointing his wand at the blond boy.

“ _Anapneo_ ,” Harry murmurs.

Then Malfoy jerks upright abruptly, his coughing stopped. The crown of his head bumps into Harry’s jaw and the smell of lemon and mint overwhelms Harry’s olfactory senses.

“Jesus,” Malfoy winces and his hands fly to his stomach. “Give me a warning next time, will you?

“Come on,” Harry mutters, and his hand rests on Malfoy’s hip, pushing him toward the dingy couch.

Malfoy collapses onto the couch with a sigh. There’s ash smeared on his knees and his shirt, stuck in his pale hair. A gray finger sneaks up to his eyes, pressing experimentally at the puffy skin there. “Get me the Oculus potion,” Malfoy says.

“Er, the what?”

Malfoy’s face contorts. “Don’t fucking mess around like that Potter. Get the Oculus potion.”

“I don’t – ”

“The Oculus potion? The only countercurse to the Conjunctivitis Curse?”

“I didn’t know there was a potion – I thought – ”

“Oh my fucking God,” Malfoy says, slightly muffled because his hands cradle his face. “The Oculus potion takes nearly a week to brew; I can’t – ”

Guilt flares in Harry’s gut before he ruthlessly stomps it out. “And what if your Incendio had set me on fire? I doubt the Order would appreciate my charred ashes – ”

“Shut up,” Malfoy growls. His hands ball into fists on his laps. “Shut up and let me think.”

Harry physically bites his tongue to refrain from retorting. Instead, Harry situates himself next to Malfoy on the couch. The cushion dips gently under Harry’s weight and Malfoy brushes his shoulders against Harry’s. Harry does not know whether or not it’s on purpose.

Malfoy’s fingers tap against his knee and Harry watches as each delicate knuckle curls, hand molding into a gentle curve. His nails are a healthy, pale pink, perfectly manicured save for the thin crescents of ash under each nail. Malfoy’s fingers dance an andante waltz onto his thighs, probably to the tune of Brahms or something pretentious like that.

When Harry breathes, his lungs are tickled by ash. Quietly, he Conjures two glass cups and fills them with water. His left forearm twitches in protest when Harry silently places the glass of water into the curve of Malfoy’s hand. His eyebrows are furrowed with concentration when he drinks, and Harry watches the bob of his throat, the way Malfoy’s slick tongue darts from between his lips to catch stray droplets of water.

“I can’t go back to the Manor,” Malfoy says finally, quiet and subdued. “Not like this.”

“You can – ”

“I’m staying here,” Malfoy confirms.

“Stay here,” Harry finishes lamely. He wipes his nose with the back of his wrist and winces when he feels the smear of wet blood on his skin. Suddenly, Harry feels overwhelmed with exhaustion. His eyes sting from the smoke, his skin burns from the fire, and his bones ache with weariness.

“If I go back to the Manor to retrieve my stock of the potion, there will be unneeded questions. And even if I go to Spinner’s End to ask Snape, no doubt Yaxley will hear of it.” Malfoy seems to be thinking aloud, but Harry still listens. “And I can’t give Yaxley the chance to doubt me – at all.”

It’s strange not to see the stony determination of Malfoy’s eyes, just the pale, salmon-colored flesh of his swollen lids.

Malfoy sniffs and brushes his knee, missing the spot of ash completely. “The potion is simple enough – it just takes time. I have a store of ingredients in the nonbeing and I can retrieve them at any time,” he continues.

“But,” Harry frowns, “Would you still be able to do it?”

Malfoy Vanishes his glass with a delicate wave of his wand. “Do what?” he asks distractedly.

“Well, brew the potion.”

Malfoy frowns “I’m not brewing it. You’re brewing it for me.”

Harry nearly chokes on his water.

“I got an Exceeds Expectations in Potions,” Harry offers a second later.

Malfoy sneers. “I’m surprised you passed at all. Anyway,” he continues, “I know the steps by heart and I’ll help you along the way.” He pauses. “Only you would know a curse but not the countercurse,” Malfoy scowls and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Let me splint your leg,” Harry says after a moment. “I’ve already healed my arm and my nose.”

“Poorly, no doubt.”

Harry situates himself on the ground in front of the couch, folds his legs and grimaces at the sight of his hastily healed forearm. “Let me splint your leg,” he repeats and Malfoy leans his head back in silent acquiescence.

Exhaustion tugs at Harry’s limbs and he wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep. But instead, he leans forward a bit and tugs at Malfoy’s leather belt. “Off,” he says.

“I really don’t think this is the time for that,” Malfoy comments condescendingly, but does nothing as Harry works open Malfoy’s belt, tugs his slacks down to where they pool around his ankles.

“I’m not going to do anything,” Harry says hotly, cheeks burning. Malfoy’s thighs are milky and his black briefs cling tightly to his body.

“Sure,” he mutters disbelievingly and Harry is tempted to see if Malfoy would respond to his advances, but his eyes are drawn to the swell of muscle on Malfoy’s right leg, where the skin of his shin is a blistering scarlet.

“ _Ferula_ ,” Harry says firmly, tapping Malfoy’s leg. Pristine bandages appear, spinning up Malfoy’s pale calf and wrapping around the injury, tightly bandaging it.

“Splendid,” Malfoy says sourly. “Potter the Mediwizard, nursing the Death Eater back to health.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Harry retorts. “A week with the splint and it should be fine.”

“If we don’t blow each other up before then,” Malfoy mutters under his breath, pulling up his trousers, and Harry can’t help but agree with him.               

-

Malfoy’s fingers stumble upon the uneven line of stitches on Harry’s left forearm when Harry leads him into the kitchen.

“Your stitching is absolutely atrocious,” Malfoy says, after Harry has let go of Malfoy’s waist and after the blond has situated himself on a rickety stool by the kitchen table.

“Feel free to fix it,” Harry says drily, pulls out a bottle of Odgen’s finest from its perch in a wooden cabinet above the leaking sink.

“I will, actually,” Malfoy snaps, “The brewing of the Oculus potion requires precision, and I won’t have an infected arm getting in the way of my recovery because of your shitty healing spells.”

“Who was the one that sliced my arm in half?” Harry shoots back, setting the bottle onto the stone countertop with a loud clink. His head aches and Harry just wants to sleep.

Malfoy beckons for Harry to come closer, and, against his better judgement, Harry does.

He steps into the slot between Malfoy’s legs, and resolutely does not shiver when Malfoy reaches out blindly, grasps onto Harry’s wrist, nails barely scraping across the thin skin there.

Malfoy runs the tip of his wand across the cut, eyebrows knit together. “This might hurt a bit,” Malfoy starts. “I have to reopen the wound to take out your stitching.”

“Do it,” Harry grits his teeth.

“ _Diffindo_ ,” Malfoy says firmly and Harry grinds his molars together, clenching his jaw as the wound splits itself open, blood spilling freely. He looks outside the kitchen window – does not look down – and sees the night outside as his skin screams with agony. Faintly, he thinks he hears Malfoy muttering about incompetent wizards who don’t know countercurses.

“ _Vulnera sanentur_ ,” comes from between Malfoy’s lips and Harry feels Malfoy’s grip tightening on his wrist. Harry closes his eyes as he feels his skin knitting back together.

“ _Tergeo_ ,” Malfoy finishes, siphoning blood from the wound. When Harry looks down, he’s greeted by a precise and meticulous row of stitches, even and neat. Even without sight, Malfoy does a better job of stitching together the laceration than Harry does. Malfoy’s fingers ghost over his work and the corners of his lips lift slightly in satisfaction.

Malfoy releases Harry’s wrist from his hold and immediately, Harry positions himself in the stool next to Malfoy, leans over to snatch the full bottle of firewhiskey.

“Do you have a basement?” Malfoy says abruptly. The firewhiskey burns a trail down Harry’s throat and his eyes water.

“It’s small. And dusty.”

“It’ll have to do. The basement will be best for the Oculus potion. It’ll be easier to maintain room temperature there,” he says and Harry nods, before remembering that Malfoy can’t see him.

“Yeah,” he says.

Malfoy turns to face Harry, his eyes no longer pink and puffy but a pale scarlet and inflamed. “Get me a wet washcloth, Potter, I feel filthy.”

“Kindly fuck off,” Harry says, and swills the firewhiskey.

“Believe me,” Malfoy snaps, “I want to. But I can’t, because of your bloody Conjunctivitis curse.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry hisses, “I didn’t stop to think of all the curses that I knew countercurses to when you were trying to fucking _set me on fire!_ ”

Harry thinks that he has a pretty decent set of reflexes, but even he can’t Malfoy lurching from his stool, lunging toward Harry and wrapping two thin hands around Harry’s neck. He doesn’t know how Malfoy did it when he can’t see but he can only blink in surprise when Malfoy speaks.

Malfoy’s fingers stumble over Harry’s clavicles, then find their way to Harry’s jugular vein, two thumbs pressing into the thin skin right underneath Harry’s jaw. Malfoy is unbelievably close, his lip curled to reveal light glinting off the enamel of his teeth.

“You fucking got me into this mess,” Malfoy whispers and every breath is a coiled threat. “You’re going to help me get out.”

Malfoy is so fucking close, his nose almost bumping Harry’s and Harry looks at his lips unashamedly, knowing full well that Malfoy won’t be able to see.

“How did I get you here?” Harry almost forgets to be angry, “How the _fuck_ did I get you here – you were the one – ”

“Not _you –_ your side,” Malfoy growls exasperatedly. Malfoy stands in the space Harry has left for him in between his knees; Harry sits at the edge of his stool and Malfoy’s fingertips press steady into the skin of Harry’s neck. “ _McGonagall_ ,” Malfoy insists, “And Shacklebolt.” Harry thinks there’ll be bruises in his neck tomorrow what with Malfoy’s fingers pressing into his skin.

“How did they – what does that have to do with anything?” Harry splutters.

“They didn’t give me a choice,” Malfoy hisses and Harry shakes his head vehemently.

“Of course they did, McGonagall – ”

“McGonagall maybe not,” Malfoy admits, “But Shacklebolt would’ve destroyed me if I hadn’t accepted.”

“How – ”

“It’s Shacklebolt,” Malfoy says, “He’s been hunting Death Eaters since before I was born, do you think he’d really have McGonagall let one walk free? If I hadn’t accepted to work with her then Shacklebolt would’ve made sure I never saw the sun again.”

“But the Ministry – ”

“Fuck the Ministry,” Malfoy hisses and he shakes Harry a bit, “The Ministry does not _matter_ – it would’ve been better for Shacklebolt. Without the Ministry, he wouldn’t have had any rules or laws holding him back. Don’t you understand?”

And Harry thinks he does, he really wants to, but –

“But you had a choice,” Harry insists, “You always have a choice and I _know_ you – ”

“You know me?” Malfoy sneers, his mouth twisted into an ugly smile.

“I know you would find a way,” Harry presses. His hands plant themselves on Malfoy’s waist – to keep Malfoy from getting too close, Harry tells himself. “You would find a way to get yourself out of that situation, you would think of something – you always think of something.”

And Malfoy – he does exactly the opposite of what Harry expects. He throws his head back and lets out an honest-to-God laugh, mouth forming a perfectly stunning smile and Harry is struck by how _attractive_ he looks –

Harry’s stomach lurches into his throat and it’s absolutely mental how Harry can want to _hurt_ him and make him bleed – then want to plant kisses along Malfoy’s skin like sowing seeds in freshly tilled earth barely thirty minutes later.

“You don’t know me at all,” Malfoy says and his lips are still pulled into a vicious smile.

Harry yanks.

He pulls Malfoy’s hips forward and they fit in between Harry’s thighs like a missing jigsaw piece; Harry crashes his lips onto Malfoy and they are soft and supple under Harry’s ministrations. Malfoy’s fingers tighten warningly around Harry’s throat like a noose.

Harry wants to know, he wants to know Malfoy so badly; he wants to map out his skin with his tongue, memorize every loop and whorl on his fingertips and the desire resonates in him with an ache – he hasn’t felt this vehement about something for so long and he just wants something for himself for once –

Malfoy shudders once and his grip on Harry slackens.

When Malfoy’s tongue slips into Harry’s mouth, every bone in Harry’s body palpitates, melts into something warm and buttery and velvety like he has all the time in the world to scrape his teeth along Malfoy’s wrists, press his hot tongue against Malfoy’s pounding pulse and breathe every part of Malfoy into his lungs and keep him there –

“You can’t just – ” Malfoy pulls away, breathing heavily.

“Just what?” Harry pants. Malfoy’s hands travel up Harry’s cheeks, past his temples and weave themselves into Harry’s disheveled hair. Harry bumps his nose right into the hollow where Malfoy’s jaw meets his neck, under his earlobe. Malfoy’s body is warm where it presses against Harry’s; he can feel every breath that Malfoy takes and he wants to bury himself in that ever present scent of lemon and mint, even under the acrid tang of smoke and fire.

“Can’t just – just _throw_ yourself on me every time we’re trying to converse,” Malfoy pants and his fingers tighten in Harry’s hair. Harry’s blood boils under his skin; he licks his lips and his gaze fixes on the bulge in Malfoy’s pants.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs, not very sorry at all, his lips pressing against Malfoy’s skin. His hand slips from its perch on Malfoy’s hipbone to fumble with Malfoy’s belt.

“Potter – Jesus, Potter, can you just – ” Malfoy cuts himself off, groans with pleasure when Harry works his hand into Malfoy’s dress pants. Malfoy’s cock is half-hard, thick and warm in Harry’s palm; it feels good, feels weighty and big.

“Fuck,” Malfoy pants a moment later when Harry brushes his thumb over the head of Malfoy’s prick, spreading the dribble of precome. Malfoy’s hands twist in Harry’s hair and Harry nips at a bit of skin on Malfoy’s neck in retaliation.

Harry is working a decent sized hickey onto the side of Malfoy’s neck and his hand is slick with precome when he hears a sharp crack from the living room.

“Shit,” Harry mutters, pulling his lips off of Malfoy’s skin with an audible pop.

“Harry?” someone calls from the living room.

“Hang on,” Harry calls, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounds. Malfoy yanks Harry’s hand out of his pants, and does up his fly.

“Stay here,” Harry says to Malfoy, cleaning his hand with a soft _scourgify_. Malfoy kicks Harry in the shin. “It’s not like I can go anywhere,” he says and Harry hurries into the living room, running a hand through his rumpled hair and wincing.

Ron stands in front of the fireplace, Hogwarts robes wrinkly and loose. “Harry,” his face breaks into a crooked smile when he sees Harry limping from the kitchen and instinctively, Harry smiles back, his stomach warming.

“You alright mate?” Ron says, as Harry draws closer. “Bloody hell, what happened to your – ”

“It’s fine,” Harry shakes his head, “I’ll tell you some other time.”

Ron clearly looks like he wants to argue, face twisted with worry, but evidently thinks better of it.

“I can’t stay for long,” Ron says apologetically, “It’s Easter hols right now and I managed to get out through the Room of Requirement – it connects straight to the Hog’s Head, Harry, through Dumbledore’s sister’s portrait – ”

“What does the portrait look like?” comes a sharp voice from the kitchen. Harry’s stomach drops.

Ron’s face begins to morph into disbelief. “Is that – ”

“Answer the question, Weasley,” Malfoy interjects and Ron whips his head to look at Harry.

“Just do it Ron,” Harry winces.

And Harry wonders what Ron has seen at Hogwarts – what he has gone through – to make him nod slowly and answer Malfoy without resistance. “Er, it’s Ariana – that’s Dumbledore’s sister – and she just leads us through the passage, from the castle to Hogsmeade – ”

“What’s in the portrait? Is she ever holding anything?” Malfoy says sharply, voice carrying from the kitchen.

Ron’s eyebrows furrow. There’s a dark cut on his cheek and an ugly bruise on his neck. “The portrait is empty. It’s just her. But sometimes she’s carrying, uh, reddish orangish fruit?” Ron calls out hesitantly, “Just one or two of them, I dunno,” he trails off and Malfoy remains silent.

“How is everyone?” Harry asks hurriedly, before Ron can ask any more about the Death Eater residing with Harry.

“Everyone’s fine,” Ron says, “A little roughed up but we’re all alright. Everyone’s at Shell Cottage now, the attacks are getting pretty bad – ”

And Harry nods, swallows the knot in his throat.

“Have you been back? To the cottage?” Harry asks and Ron shakes his head.

“’m heading there now.” He looks around, as if someone were watching them. “I shouldn’t be here, really, McGonagall told me to go straight to Shell Cottage like she knew I would – ”

Harry nods, pushes down the disappointment rising in his belly. “I suppose you’ll be off then?”

Ron smiles apologetically. “I wish you could come mate, but – ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says and moves in to hug Ron, grateful for the few moments they’d shared.

“Bill will fill me in with the rest, yeah?” Ron murmurs and he grips Harry’s shoulders tightly. “Stay safe, Harry,” he says, straight into Harry’s ear and when they pull back, Ron looks meaningfully into the kitchen.

“You too,” Harry says and his gut pangs with a sense of foreboding loss. “Give the others my love.”

The Floo roars and his best friend disappears in a cloud of green flames. Harry stands in front of the fireplace, his heart aching and his hands opening and closing, opening and closing, like they don’t know what to do with themselves. For a moment there, he’d forgotten the pain in his shin and his arm, lost in the familiarity of the presence of a _friend_. And now, the safehouse feels even hollower than usual.

He stands staring into the crackling fire for a moment more, before turning around and heading back into the kitchen.

Malfoy stands in the same place that Harry left him. He’s found the bottle of firewhiskey that Harry abandoned and nurses it, face pinched in concentration. Harry begins to step forward into the kitchen, then stops himself. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

Harry emerges from the bathroom a moment later, a Conjured plastic bucket in one hand and a pair of worn clothes in the other.

Malfoy sits in a wooden stool, elbows propped on the stone counter and head propped on his hands. The bottle of Odgen’s is more than half empty. Malfoy’s back curves over the countertop and Harry reckons he can make out the sharp knobs of his spine.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to shower with the splint,” Harry says, plopping the bucket and its sloshing contents onto the counter and placing the clothes next to it. “So I have – ” Harry pushes the bucket toward Malfoy, until it brushes one elbow. “And – ” Harry plops the clothes into Malfoy’s lap. “I’ll be taking this,” Harry grabs the firewhiskey, “And I will be in the living room,” he says quickly, high-tailing his way out of the kitchen.

Malfoy is just beginning to straighten his slouch when Harry leaves the kitchen. Harry does not want to deal with Malfoy’s aristocratic, _I’m a Malfoy and I need none of your filthy help_ , bullshit this late at night, so he finds himself a seat in front of the fire and begins to polish off the rest of the firewhiskey. Malfoy can nurse his pride by himself; Harry’s just in the next room over.

Time slows.

Harry’s aware of the fire crackling in front of him, of the chill of the night around him and of the sudden ache in his bones, the weight of his limbs, but nothing else really. His thoughts are diaphanous things, drifting along, vague and only half-formed.

There’s about a quarter bottle of firewhiskey left when Harry’s curiosity gnaws at his insides and causes him to rise from his comfortable spot by the fire to pad into the kitchen.

The plastic bucket rests atop a stool and Malfoy has shed his black dress shirt. It lies folded neatly on the countertop, on top his folded trousers. Malfoy wears the worn gray sweatpants that Harry has given him.

Malfoy has found the gray washcloth within the bucket and cleans his skin with broad, sweeping strokes, wet cloth leaving a trail of moist skin in its wake. Malfoy’s frame is thin, but lithe, smooth skin stretching taut over the delicate curve of his spine, over the jut of his hipbones and the lines of his ribs. The veins on Malfoy’s hands run up his forearms as he stretches to reach a spot in his back and Harry’s mouth begins to water at the sight.

Malfoy tosses the wet washcloth into the bucket and reaches for the t-shirt on the counter.

“Are you going to continue standing there staring, or help me?” Malfoy bites out and Harry watches his darkened nipples disappear under the cotton shirt.

“How did you know I was here?” Harry asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“You’re loud,” Malfoy says, “And I’m observant.”

“Fair enough.”

Harry approaches Malfoy slowly, watches as he fumbles for the bucket, then for his wand, tapping the bucket and Vanishing it wordlessly.

“I’ll sleep in the living room,” Malfoy asserts and Harry nods before catching himself.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Harry leans in and catches Malfoy’s elbow, helps him to the living room. Malfoy finds the couch and sinks into it without a sound.

“I’ll – I’ll just go then,” Harry says, lamely.

Malfoy waves his wand to Conjure a pillow. “We’ll start the potion tomorrow.”

Malfoy Conjures bedsheets and Harry can only wonder how high the thread count is as he leaves Malfoy in the living room and heads to the bathroom for a long hot shower.


	7. seven

Brown-black earth is soft and moist underneath Draco’s bare feet. A forest of trees looms ominously around him, their branches thick and knurled, their ragged tips reaching into the gray sky, piercing the bellies of benign clouds. The air is chilled and as he breathes, Draco sees every one of his breaths condensing in the morning air.

Wind ruffles his hair and Draco turns his head slowly. Bellatrix Lestrange stands partially hidden behind a tall tree, her robes tight and ragged around her body.

“Draco,” she croons, her features pale and blurry. Bella reaches out with one hand and her fingers curl into talons. “How do you feel, darling?” she cackles and her face morphs into something ugly. “Humiliated? Ashamed?”

Draco attempts to shake his head but his neck is stiff.

“It’s alright baby,” she simpers, batting her eyelashes. “Everyone knows darling Draco can’t do anything by himself. It’s just,” she frowns in mock concern, “Daddy would be so disappointed in you. Having to rely on someone else to feed you and care for you and oh, dear, you must feel so _helpless_ , hm?”

She smiles crookedly, then melts into the forest from whence she came.

“It’s alright, Draco,” says someone behind him and he turns sluggishly to see his mother.

“Mum.” Draco’s lips form the word but no sound comes out.

Draco hears the hiss and crackle of a fire and slowly wakes. The living room of the safehouse is cool in the early morning; Draco can hear that the fire has died down to a few popping embers. Draco lies languidly on the couch, silky sheets tucked under his chin. The couch rasps under his bare skin – Draco has abandoned the cotton t-shirt in favor of sleeping bare-chested.

The events of yesterday filter back into Draco’s mind and he remembers the shame, the wounded pride and the sharp sting of humiliation. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself.

Without his vision, Draco feels vulnerable and weak. His eyes are crusted over with sleep, still swollen and painful to touch. He fumbles for his wand, finds it within a crack between two couch cushions, infinitely grateful for the fact that he still has wandless magic in his arsenal.

The couch is significantly softer than what it was the previous evening, thanks to a Cushioning charm and several pillows that Draco Conjured. His right leg throbs and his head pounds.

_In its general approach, and its ambition, Plato’s utterly mistaken theory anticipated the spirit of modern theoretical physics. His program of describing the material world by analyzing it to a few atomic substances, each with simple properties, existing in great numbers of identical copies, coincides with modern understanding._

It’s the telltale sound of soft footfalls resounding in the hallway, padding toward the living room that alerts Draco, lets him know that Potter has woken.

“Malfoy?” he says softly a moment later and Draco thinks he’s standing a few feet from the couch.

“We need to start brewing the potion,” Draco says, inwardly composing himself, swings his legs over the edge of the couch, wincing when his leg aches in protest. He fumbles with the cotton t-shirt and pulls it on.

“Right,” Potter says and Draco hears him step closer, wrap a warm arm around Draco’s waist and Draco feels like a fucking _invalid_. A telltale burning fills his stomach, and Draco’s hands curl into fists.

Don’t do this right now, he tells himself, pull yourself together and get the bloody potion brewing.

_Deeper still penetrates his insight that symmetry defines structure. Plato sensed enormous potential in the fact that asking for perfect symmetry leads one to discover a small number of possible structures._

Potter lifts Draco from the couch and a searing pain ripples up Draco’s leg when he attempts to put weight on it. Instead, he leans on Potter, feels the worn material of Potter’s shirt stretched over warm skin.

“Basement,” Potter mutters and Draco clenches his teeth. _Don’t –_

He imagines the safehouse in his mind, sees Potter assisting him down the hallway, to a door and down a set of stairs. Potter’s arm wraps around his waist, hand tight and possessive on his hipbone; Draco’s arm drapes around his shoulders.

They clamber down the stairs slowly, painfully, one step at a time. Every foot farther into the basement tears at Draco’s dignity – his arm slings tightly over Potter’s shoulders and every step sends a shiver of pain up Draco’s leg. Draco gnashes his teeth together the whole time.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he hears Potter mutter and as they ascend the very last step, the air of the basement washes over Draco. It is damp and thick and musty and reminds Draco of the dungeons at Hogwarts.

“Is there a table,” Draco rasps. His throat feels dry.

“Yeah. It’s stone. There’s three stools and one candelabra in the very corner,” he supplies.

“Light the candles. Put out your wand.”

Potter lights the candles with a murmured spell, and puts out his wand with a gentle swish.

“The table’s this way,” Potter says and he leads Draco to it.

Draco reaches out blindly, fumbling for the table. Humiliation floods his cheeks with warmth.

“Here,” Potter mumbles and his hand is hot and heavy on Draco’s wrist as he pulls Draco’s hand to the table, rests his palm on its surface. Draco curls his lip in disdain.

The table is smooth, probably granite, Draco thinks. Its edges and vertices have been smoothed down with either magic or sandstone.

“This will be fine,” he says hollowly.

Draco concentrates for a moment, then waves his wand, Summoning a small pewter cauldron and various ingredients. Draco hears them land gently on the table then severs the stream of magic. Abruptly, Draco’s strength feels drained. His throat is unbelievably dry. Pain numbs his face when he makes the mistake of attempting to crack open his eyes. Draco clears his throat.

His hands crawl over the table to the ingredients, fingers running over the familiar cold curve of the pewter cauldron, the smooth surface of a preserved unicorn horn, the fronds of wormwood, and the bristly skin of a mandrake root.

“Water,” he says after ensuring that every ingredient is in its proper place, “I need you to Conjure a vial of water,” he says to Potter, who presumably bristles at the order.

“Why?” Potter says indignantly from somewhere behind Draco.

“Because,” Draco says through his teeth, “Summoning the ingredients drains a substantial amount of my energy, and it isn’t as if you’re doing anything anyway.”

_Based on that foundation, and a few clues from experience, the outlandish synthesis that his philosophy suggested should be possible, to realize the World as Ideas, might be achievable._

Thankfully Potter Conjures a vial and fills it with a hissed Augumenti without another word.

“We have to crystallize the water,” Draco muses to himself, “and stew the mandrake and crush the unicorn horn.” His fingers stumble blindly to the unicorn horn.

“I need a mortar and pestle,” Draco says to Potter.

He hears Potter plop onto a stool by Draco.

“Of course,” Potter mutters, placing the vial of water into Draco’s hand. His fingertips brush against Draco’s knuckles and Draco resolutely does not shiver.

“We’ll crush the unicorn horn first,” Draco says to himself. He chews his bottom lip. There are a few steps of the potion brewing that would require – later, he interrupts himself.

A cold stone mortar nudges Draco’s elbow.

“Here,” Potter says roughly. Draco holds out the water vial in Potter’s general direction. “Take this.”

Draco finds the unicorn horn and snaps it cleanly in half, places it gingerly into the stone mortar.

“Remind me again why you can’t Conjure these things yourself?” Potter interrupts.

“Because.”

“Because why?” Potter nudges his shoulder into Draco’s and Draco wonders when his weight at Draco’s side became so familiar.

“You’ve a massive amount of magical force,” Draco bites out.

_And clues were there to be found: Near-coincidence between the number of perfect solids (five) and the number of suspected elements (four); suggestions of how observed qualities might reflect underlying shapes (e.g., the sting of fire from the sharp points of tetrahedra)._

“Don’t let that get to your head,” Draco adds. “Just because you’ve got brute force doesn’t mean you have accuracy and refinement.”

“Sure,” Potter mutters, then a little louder, “How do you know?”

Draco waves his wand and the pestle begins pounding methodically into the unicorn horn.

“Your Bombarda blasted me a solid five feet backwards. If I tried, I wouldn’t get more than a yard.”

“Interesting,” Potter says.

Draco sniffs. He runs his hand down Potter’s sleeve, pulls the glass vial from his grip and pours the water into the cauldron. His face pulls in concentration as Draco begins to crystallize the water, raising the temperature to a rolling boil.

“Why did you ask about the portrait yesterday?” Draco hears Potter says over the bubbling liquid.

“Hm?” Draco says distractedly. Being blind forces Draco to rely on touch, scent, and sound as indications for when his ingredients are ready.

“Ariana Dumbledore’s portrait,” Potter says, his voice closer to Draco now. He leans a bit on Draco’s shoulder and Draco feels his breath billowing hot on the side of his neck.

The water in the pewter cauldron spits in warning and Draco waves his wand over the cauldron, feels the currents of heat on the skin of his hand. Sea salt sprinkles itself into the cauldron.

“Reddish orangish fruit, Potter. That’s what Weasley said Ariana was holding.” The water hisses and Draco feels a stream of steam rising from the cauldron. “Those are plangentines.”

“The fruit with healing properties?”

“The same one.”

Draco waves his wand once more and the sea salt disappears from the cauldron.

“And what does that have to do anything?” Potter leans even closer and Draco feels compelled to grab him by the collar, though to push him away or to pull him closer Draco does not know.

“Plangentines are extremely rare. It’s hard to grow the plant and nearly impossible to grow the plant bearing fruit; it requires a constant stream of magic from its surroundings.”

Harry imagines the lines of Potter’s mouth as he frowns.

“It isn’t a coincidence that both You-Know-Who and Dumbledore’s sister were both involved with plangentines then, is it?”

“No,” Draco says. The cauldron steams and hisses. “Grindelwald and Dumbledore were extremely close when Ariana was alive, and I assume at the time the portrait was painted. If that’s true, then we know that either Ariana, Albus, Aberforth or Grindelwald was planting plangentines.”

“Or the artist was shit at painting oranges,” Potter interjects and Draco resists the urge to slap his arm.

“Given the circumstances,” Draco continues as if he were not interrupted, “I believe it’d be safe to assume that Ariana and Aberforth were not the ones responsible for growing the fruits.”

“Why?” Potter interrupts and if Draco had eyes he would roll them.

“Because, Potter,” Draco says, very calmly and very patiently, “I read Skeeter’s book. _Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_? Sound familiar?”

“That book is a load of bullshit,” Potter spits.

“Historically accurate bullshit,” Draco says primly, adjusting the temperature of the cauldron slightly. “The book may have been biased and twisted but there is some accuracy in it. Anyway,” he continues, “Ariana was in no position to be growing plants that ate up magic as an energy source – there’s no way she would’ve been able to do it. I doubt Aberforth has the magical prowess for that sort of work, and he wouldn’t have been interested in something as abstract as a healing fruit.

“That leaves Dumbledore and Grindelwald. From what I can gather, it doesn’t particularly matter who grew them – the two were practically inseparable at the time.”

“But what does this have to do with You-Know-Who?” Potter interrupts.

“I’m getting there,” Draco says, lowering the temperature of the cauldron. “So either Grindelwald or Dumbledore grew the plangentines. We know that plangentine can be boiled and used in high concentrations in healing potions.”

“Right.”

“But there are easier ways to heal injuries – you have your standard healing spells, Dark magic involved with alleviating pain, et cetera. Plangentine is too difficult to brew just for healing broken bones and bloody noses.

“Plangentine has a unique ability to palliate diseases and eventually flush pathogens from one’s body.”

Potter nods and Draco feels the movement from where they’re pressed up against each other.

“Time travel amplifies disease – the larger the length of time you travel, the more unprepared your immune system is, in terms of adaptive immunity that is.

“Concentrated amounts of plangentine would be the ideal cure to pathogens you would be exposed to when travelling to another time period. You go back in time, you face new disease. You bring plangentine when you time travel, drink it when you get sick, and the problem is solved.”

“So you’re saying,” Potter says slowly, as if he were tasting the words in his mouth before letting them fall from his lips.

“Grindelwald and Dumbledore also attempted time-travel,” Draco finishes.

Potter remains quiet.

Draco brings the cauldron down to a low simmer, finishing the crystallizing process.

“The question then,” Potter says to the room a few minutes later, “Is whether or not they were successful.”

“Not at first,” Draco says, tapping the cauldron and turning off the heat completely, waits for the pewter to cool. “I suspect it wasn’t very high on their list of priorities at the time,” Draco says. “It was just another item on the list, along with the Deathly Hallows and cleansing the Wizarding world of impure blood.”

“But after Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald,” Potter starts.

“Grindelwald must’ve considered time travel a chance to regain the power he lost,” confirms Draco. “Although this is all purely conjectural at the moment, I believe time travel is another reason why the Dark Lord wishes to visit Grindelwald.”

“Along with the Elder Wand.”

“Along with the Elder Wand,” Draco echoes. “Even if Grindelwald wasn’t successful, he probably got far along enough in the process that the Dark Lord thinks he has information that could be useful.” He holds out the empty glass vial in front of him. “Fill this with the crystallized water in the cauldron,” Draco says.

Potter takes the vial without complaint, no doubt pondering the vagaries of time travel –  as Draco is.

Draco hears Potter siphon the crystallized water into the vial then clean the cauldron with a firm Scourgify.

“The stewing of the mandrake root will take the most of the week,” Draco says, as an afterthought.

“Fine,” says Potter. “We’ve been down here for almost three hours already. Come on, let’s go upstairs. I can feel the mold growing on my skin.” And Draco nods, accepts the weight of Potter’s hand on his arm with a little more than a wince.

-

Potter leads Draco up the stairs to the kitchen. Draco limps with every step, his already-battered pride shattering into a hundred shards; he can’t find the energy within himself to bend over and pick up every last one.

At the same time, Potter’s body is taut and warm and inviting next to Draco’s, every muscle in his limbs a dangerous provocation. Draco clenches his willpower like a shield.

They make their way into the kitchen; Draco feels carpet underneath his bare feet shift into cold tile. Potter leads Draco to a stool and Draco pulls himself onto it, right leg stiff and useless. Draco makes a note to himself to change his bandages later.

“I just have oatmeal and apples,” Potter says, his voice slightly farther away. Draco hears the clatter of pots and pans.

“Where are the apples from? I thought no one came here besides me.”

“No one does come here besides you,” Potter says. Water rushes into a metal pot. “There’s an apple tree in the back. The fruits are small, but they’re still sweet.”

There’s a clink as a heavy pot – Draco assumes the same one filled with water – lands on the stove. The gas clicks and a flame bursts into being. For a few minutes, the only sound in the safehouse is the soft flames licking metal.

_One must also admire the boldness of genius in seeing an apparent defect in the theory—five solids for four elements—as an opportunity for crowning creation, either with the Universe as a whole or with space itself._

“Multiverse,” Potter says suddenly, jolting Draco from his reverie.

“What?”

“The multiverse theory,” Potter insists again and his voice sounds closer. “You said that Grindelwald wasn’t successful in his attempts to time travel.”

“I think we’d be in a very different situation right now if he was,” Draco says drily.

“Yes, but what if he was successful?” Potter inquires and Draco thinks he’s taken the seat next to him.

Draco frowns. “How so?”

“Hang on,” Potter says breathlessly, as if his mind were reeling from a revelation. The kitchen fills with the sound of departing footfalls and Draco is left with the bubbling water. The silence lies thick and heavy, uncomfortable in Draco’s throat.

The sound of footsteps alerts Draco when Potter returns again.

“Here,” Potter says breathlessly. Something clunks onto the countertop and Draco clears his throat.

“McGonagall gave me heaps of books to sort through when she first told me I was staying here – I guess she thought I’d feel better if it seemed like I was helping but – ” Potter trails off. “Anyway, I stumbled on the multiverse theory just a few weeks ago.”

“You’ve piqued my interest,” Draco says, propping his elbows on the table in a caricature of encouragement.

“What, because I know something you don’t?” Potter replies waspishly, the edges of his voice lifting teasingly.

“No, because I didn’t know Saint Potter could actually find the willpower within himself to sit down and read and honest-to-God book.”

“Fuck off,” Potter says heatedly.

Draco sneers. “Go on then.”

“It’ll be easier if I just read it to you,” Potter says, flipping through the book. The sound of pages rasping against one another fills the room.

“Well, it talks about Einstein and some of the stuff you told us about,” Potter begins, “But I’ll just skip to – here. Er, I’ll just start then. The – the multiverse is a theory in which our universe is not the only one, but states that many universes exist parallel to each other. These distinct universes within the multiverse theory are called parallel universes.

“A variety of different theories lend themselves to a multiverse viewpoint. Not all physicists really believe that these universes exist. Even fewer believe that it would be possible to contact these parallel universes,” Potter finishes.

Draco clamps his teeth together. And the kitchen fills with silence.

“So?” Potter says, and Draco would cut off his own hand if there wasn’t a smirk painted across Potter’s face at that moment.

“Shut it,” Draco hisses. “Just tell me.”

“What, you haven’t figured it out yourself? I thought – ”

Draco reaches out with one hand and finds Harry’s thigh, runs his hand to a sharp hipbone and darts underneath Potter’s shirt, pinches at the thin skin right above his waist.

Potter lets out a satisfying yelp.

“You bastard,” he hisses and slaps Draco’s hand away.

“Tell me,” Draco says and Potter lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“Since you couldn’t piece it together yourself,” he starts and Draco raises one eyebrow in a perfect arch. “If Grindelwald were successful in his time travel, it’s possible that that would’ve created a split in the timeline, creating a completely alternate parallel universe.”

“One in which Grindelwald won instead of Dumbledore,” Draco muses.

“Exactly,” says Potter. “It’s possible that somewhere, in another universe right now, Grindelwald is the most powerful wizard alive.”

Draco tugs at his sleeve. “But he isn’t. Not in this universe at least.”

“Obviously, but if he _is_ in another universe, and if he _is_ the most powerful wizard there, then that proves it. It proves that the time travel would work and You-Know-Who would be able to – ”

“ _If_ ,” Draco emphasizes. “If this, if that. What you’re proposing is purely hypothetical. The book said that even if parallel universes did exist, few think it’d be possible to contact – ”

“Purely hypothetical?” Harry echoes. “Purely hypothetical?” he says again, more incredulously this time. “This whole time travel business is purely hypothetical. We don’t know if Grindelwald went back in time; we don’t know if Dumbledore and Grindelwald were even working on time travel; we don’t know if those were plangentines in Ariana’s portraits, if plangentines are even _related_ to time travel; and most of all, we don’t know if Vol – if You-Know-Who wants to move through the spacetime continuum or if – ”

“All of the signs point to those paths. We don’t know for sure but it is probable – ”

“It’s also probable that Grindelwald has taken over some other universe through time travel! He was the most powerful Dark wizard of his time.”

“I’m not saying that we should rule the possibility out,” Draco retorts hotly. “But you have to think logically – ”

“Think logically?” Potter scoffs. “What – ”

“If Grindelwald left this universe and became successful in another one, how is there still a Grindelwald in our universe, right now? Imprisoned in Nurmengard?” Draco talks over him loudly.

“There are possibilities,” Potter bites out and there’s a screech of wood against tile as Draco assumes Potter stands up, pushing his chair across the kitchen floor. “He could’ve set up a plan to cover his departure – he could’ve – ”

“Could have this, could have that!” Draco explodes. “None of this is helping us get anywhere! We have to find out whether or not the Dark Lord is going back in _this_ world – we have to concentrate on _this_ universe right now; this is the world we live in and this is the world that concerns me, Potter!”

“What about the others then?” Potter challenges. “Would you leave them to the mercy of Grindelwald?”

Draco lets out a growl of frustration, runs his hands through his hair. “They don’t fucking matter to me, Potter, can’t you understand? I _do not care_ about them. I am not there! It doesn’t affect – ”

“But you are,” Potter insists. “There’s a version of you there and – ” he breaks off, realizing the error in his argument.

A lid rattles. The water has come to a boil.

Soft footsteps. Potter has gone to the stove.

Draco wonders if he’ll ever find happiness in life. Perhaps he already has, but he’s been too preoccupied with the war and his family to notice.

“Is anyone ever truly good or bad?” Potter asks, after the rattling has stopped. His voice is hoarse and soft and fractured and Draco does not know how to answer.

Potter pours something grainy into the water; Draco hears it scratching against a cardboard box as Potter pours it in.

“It’s just – Dumbledore believed in the greater good as well. And before, I thought he was – ”

A pan clatters and there’s the sound of a drawer being pulled open, being shut.

“He left me here,” Potter says quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it, ever since I got here. He imprisoned me in this safehouse because he believed in the greater good – because he thought he could raise me up like a – a lamb for slaughter. He won’t let me out until the right time and I don’t even know how I’ll beat You-Know-Who – I don’t – ”

A cupboard creaks open. Porcelain clinks on porcelain.

“He didn’t even tell me how I’m supposed to beat him,” Potter murmurs.

“He didn’t tell you a lot of things,” Draco says. He means to say it condescendingly but it just comes out quiet.

“Yeah,” Potter says bitterly. “He didn’t. The old bastard.”

Another drawer pulled open, drawer pushed shut.

Potter’s voice is low when he asks, “Does that make him any better?”

“Better than Grindelwald? Or You-Know-Who?”

“Either one of them,” Potter says and again, Draco has no answer for him.

A utensil clatters into an empty pot or bowl and the whole scene feels frightfully domestic.

“Do you want oatmeal?” Potter asks tonelessly.

“No.”

“Apple?”

“Just one would be fine.”

Soft footfalls as Potter makes his way next to Draco. There’s the clatter of porcelain against stone and then Potter takes Draco’s hand, places a small apple there.

Draco dips his head sharply in lieu of thanks.

Silverware clinks against porcelain as Potter eats. Draco bites the apple, its sweetness bursting in his mouth. Draco feels as though there should be some burning emotion in his gut, possibly anger or disgust, but instead there is nothing but a longing for a soft mattress, possibly a spot of vodka or firewhiskey.

Both an infinity and a heartbeat have passed by before Draco speaks again.

“If it makes you feel better,” Draco says finally, the pad of his thumb brushing along the core of his apple, “I think even if parallel universes did exist, I’d probably still be in the same place in every single one.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“I’d always be stuck in between,” he says simply. Draco hears Potter open his mouth and take in a breath to speak, then exhales slowly as if he thinks better of it; then they are quiet.

Potter makes a racket when he gets up to clear his bowl, tosses it into the sink, spoon following with a clatter. Draco Vanishes his yellowing apple core.

“To the basement then?” Potter asks, coming closer again.

Draco nods, takes Potter’s arm as they begin the trek down the stairs.

-

“To stew the mandrake root is tricky,” Draco starts. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, abruptly realizing that his Dark Mark is on full display. “You have to balance between cooking the root and fermenting it in such a way that its properties are still retained.”

“And am I doing this?” Potter asks skeptically.

“Some of it,” Draco muses. “I should be able to start the stewing process but you’ll have to assist me with a few things.” Draco runs his palm along the surface of the mandrake root, feeling the rough root hairs under his touch. Draco waves his wand with his other hand and a silver knife clatters onto the table.

Draco begins to clean the root methodically, thumb brushing over the root once in a while to measure his progress. The sharp blade of the knife scrapes the skin of the root, peeling off dirt and tough cuticle.

“So,” Harry starts thoughtfully, “To successfully time travel in the Wizarding World without a time-turner, we need Magna Motus, to bring together cosmic strings.”

Draco says nothing, thumb pushing the flat blade of the knife along the mandrake root.

“The Elder Wand, to conjure Magna Motus, and plangentines, as preventative measures against variable pathogens. Am I missing anything?”

Draco pushes the mandrake root and knife across the table, to where Potter sits. “Chop this. Finely.”

There’s the scrape of metal against stone as Potter picks up the knife, and the sound of rough chopping fills the basement. “Evenly,” Draco interjects. “I remember the state of your Sopophorous beans and beetles in Potions class.”

Potter grumbles something under his breath and Draco chooses not to listen.

“And no, that is the gist of it,” continues Draco. “Although the finer details of Magna Motus are beyond me,” Draco bites his lip. Potter continues to chop, albeit more evenly than before.

“There were five solids that the philosopher Plato believed represented the basic elements of the world,” Draco says, filling his cauldron with water.

“Earth, air, fire, and water – ”

“And the aether,” finishes Draco. “Essentially, Magna Motus harnesses natural energies like light and gravity to control the elements. Notable uses include the formation of pyramids in Egypt, the Stonehenge in England, and the Great Wall of China. These examples all used Magna Motus to shift earth – whether it be limestone, sandstone, or rock.”

“Merlin,” Potter says, “You sound like Binns.”

“Fuck you,” says Draco placidly. “In our case, the Dark Lord would want to harness the force of gravity to shift aether – literally create his own cosmic strings.”

“But how,” Potter’s chopping slows to a halt, “How to do it is the question.”

“A question that Grindelwald would have the answer to, if he hadn’t used a time-turner.”

Potter lets out a noise of frustration.

“Leave it,” Draco says primly. “Stop thinking about it. We have to focus on the task at hand.”

“I don’t understand how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Not get caught in the whole scheme of things,” Potter says, “You zero in on what we have to do and just, well, you just get it done.”

“This potion won’t brew itself,” Draco says drily.

“I meant – never mind.”

“The cauldron needs to be filled with water and various minerals before the mandrake can be added,” Draco continues, deliberately obtuse. “And it’ll have to stew for at least a few days before it cooks through. The temperature can’t fluctuate more than a few degrees throughout the cooking.”

There’s a clunk as some bodily part of Potter meets the table. “Jesus.”

Draco waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll just set a charm that’ll go off if the temperature needs to be adjusted.”

“ _Aguamenti_ ,” Potter says a moment later and water sloshes into the cauldron. Draco hears a small fire licking at the bottom of the cauldron.

Draco Summons vials of carbonates and phosphates. “Buffering salts,” he recites, “to stabilize pH levels.”

He pours each one into the bubbling water, thirteen seconds within each other and starts to stir the stock counter-clockwise fifteen times with a glass rod.

“Glass,” he says to Potter, “Because any alloys or metals would interfere with the mineral and content of the solution.”

“I feel like I’m back in Potions,” Potter mumbles.

“Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.”

“And now?”

“We wait,” Draco says. “The stock has to simmer gently for two hours before we can add the mandrake. And,” he adds, “I want to brush my teeth.” 


	8. eight

Minerva McGonagall’s safehouse creaks gently in the evening wind, wooden panels leaning to and fro. Water runs in the only bathroom in the house, rushing through rusty faucets and into a stained porcelain sink. Dried blood falls like snowflakes onto the tile floor.

Draco Malfoy sits on the porcelain toilet, leg propped up on Harry’s knee. “Are you sure I can take it off?” Harry asks, kneeling on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet. Harry picks at the bandaging. The bandages are startlingly white; it almost hurts Harry’s eyes to look at them, but then again, it almost hurts Harry just to keep his eyes open nowadays. “It’s hardly been a day – ”

“Just take it off,” Malfoy repeats. Harry’s shirt hangs off of Malfoy’s lithe frame; the Slytherin is just a hair taller than Harry, so the tattered hem of the shirt barely extends down to Malfoy’s beltline. Pale skin peeks out from underneath the tee, and Harry catches the shadow of a sharp hipbone. Malfoy’s hands fist into the fabric of the pants that he wears – Harry’s pants, actually.

Harry clears his throat with not a small amount of effort. The air in the safehouse is dry and parching, even in the evening time.

“Malfoy,” Harry begins.

Malfoy scowls, “It’s not even your bandage, Potter, just – ”

“It’s been one day,” Harry replies hotly. The skin of his nostrils is thin and dry, his eyes are stinging and salty, his cheeks are rough and flaking. Harry imagines this is how wildfires start. “What if it gets infected?”

“Then I’ll take a fucking shower,” Malfoy sneers, his mouth curled into something ugly and carnal and Harry thinks of their time at Hogwarts – it feels like a lifetime ago – when Malfoy would sneer that same sneer at Harry, in the hallways, in broom closets, in the Quidditch locker room. They are echoes of the boys they were back then; now, they are still the same people, but more ragged around the edges, worn thin after months of war.

And then Harry eyes the splint apprehensively. The bandaging is still clean. Harry tries to undo it without jostling Malfoy too much, but the arid weather has thinned his patience – Harry feels rather irascible these days – and when he tugs off the bandaging roughly, a pile of dried blood flakes forms on the floor.

Harry Vanishes both the bandages and the blood with a flick of his wand. “Can you walk?”

Malfoy rises unevenly without a word, his pant leg falling back over the ragged skin of his calf from where it was rucked up around his knee. His jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck twitch. “Get out, Potter,” he all but snaps.

Harry’s palms are cold and dry; a sudden surge of irritation swells in his stomach. He’s here, helping Malfoy, and the git doesn’t even have the decency to even pretend to be in gratitude. Harry swallows the knot of black anger in his throat, darts a tongue out to wet his chapped lips.

“Fine,” Harry bites out. Malfoy is a hot, dry autumn wind and Harry’s temper sparks like wildfire in his presence.

“Fine,” Malfoy retorts coolly, turning away from Harry, towards the shower.

Harry curls his hands into fists and steps from the bathroom.

For a moment, he simply pauses outside of the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him: a split moment of indecision has frozen Harry in his tracks.

Malfoy’s black clothes, now clean and folded meticulously, lie in a neat pile on the blue armchair. Harry blinks.

And then, as breeze floats into the room, the curtains over Harry’s open window part easily, allowing sunlight to shine on the carpet. The room feels unnaturally warm, although that might have to do with the flush diffused across Harry’s cheeks, the _accelerando_ tempo at which his heartbeat races, the dry skin at the back of his throat.

After taking four steps forward, scooping up Malfoy’s clothes, and turning around on his heels, Harry heads back into the bathroom before he can think better of it.

Malfoy has found his way into the shower: curtain is drawn, the mirrors in the bathroom have just begun to fog, the sound of the showerhead spitting out water fills the bathroom.

“I’m leaving your clothes on the toilet,” Harry says loudly, over the rush of water.

Malfoy might’ve let out a grunt of acknowledgement but the sound is lost in the stream of water. Harry stands there for a moment, hands hanging at his sides.

Harry’s bones feel brittle from the heat, Harry’s temper is worn down from spending weeks in this goddamned safehouse, Harry’s skin feels singed from his close encounter with the _incendio_ that had sent the tall grass in front of the safehouse into flames, and Draco fucking Malfoy, with all his polite, aristocratic upbringing, still doesn’t have the sense to carefully place his pride aside for just one _bloody_ moment to say ‘thank you.’

Dark spite rushes through Harry and he grabs his cotton shirt by the back of the collar on a whim, tugs it over his shoulders. He shucks his pants and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor and places his glasses by the sink. The sound is muffled by the splatter of water on tile.

“What – ” Malfoy yelps when Harry yanks the shower curtain back loudly, the metal rings of the shower curtain screeching. Malfoy’s hands dart out to the tile walls to anchor himself but his fingers slip and Harry lunges forward, planting his hands on Malfoy’s slick hips, thumbs brushing over smooth, wet skin. The showerhead coughs and spits up water, droplets falling onto Harry’s skin and his hair. Harry hisses when the hot water nearly scalds his skin. One of Malfoy’s thighs slips between Harry’s legs and Harry’s blood burns in his veins.

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Harry all but growls, his grip on Malfoy tightening. Malfoy’s skin is slippery and hot. Harry reaches up with one hand to draw the curtain shut once more, locking in the steam that kisses his dry skin.

“What the fuck, Potter,” hisses Malfoy. The visible shock on his face melts into cold anger, and he jerks a knee in an attempt to pull away, but Harry refuses to let go of his anger and refuses to let go of Malfoy.

“Do you think I want to be here?” Harry rasps, blinking fat water droplets out of his eyes. Malfoy’s hands have somehow found their way to Harry’s chest; eight knuckles press into Harry’s sternum.

Malfoy sneers. “What do I know?” His wet hair is pushed back and his cheeks are slightly flushed, his lips are rosy and his knuckles dig into Harry’s skin.

“Neither of us want to be here, Malfoy,” Harry snaps, sliding one wet foot forward, crowds Malfoy against the tile wall. “But we _are_ , and we have to fucking deal with it, alright?”

“Oh,” Malfoy breathes. His voice, dark and low and dangerous, causes Harry to clench his stomach muscles in anticipation. Malfoy’s spine curves until he slouches against the tile wall, just slightly, but enough so that Harry slots in between his thighs, their skins slipping slick against each other. “ _Oh_ , so do you want to pretend?”

“I – ” starts Harry.

But then Malfoy curls his palms behind Harry’s neck, fingers brushing against his nape, and tugs forward so Malfoy can press his lips against Harry’s words before they leave his mouth.

Malfoy’s mouth slides hot and wet across Harry’s; it’s messy and it’s uncoordinated – Harry tries to grip onto the wall that Malfoy leans against but the condensation causes his fingers to skate off; Malfoy’s mouth seems intent on kissing the corner of Harry’s lips; Harry’s wet hand slips off of Malfoy’s hip and ends up cradling Malfoy’s shoulder – but it’s _good_. It’s wet and hot and slick and filthy and _delicious_.

Malfoy’s tongue brushes against Harry’s bottom lip and Harry all but lunges forward to try and chase the kiss, but his foot slides and he ends up plastered against Malfoy – mouth to mouth, chest to chest, cock to cock.

“Hmph,” Harry manages when Malfoy rolls his hips in a wave, sliding their cocks together. Their mouths fall apart when Harry ruts forward, pressing two palms flat against the tile wall behind Malfoy in order to snap his hips up more sharply, as he seeks more friction.

“You want me to pretend, Potter,” Malfoy breathes, his voice barely audible over the spray of water; Harry had almost forgotten that they were in the middle of a conversation. “You want me to pretend that we get along, that there’s nothing wrong out there?”

Hot water sluices down Malfoy’s chest, pooling in the hollow of his collarbones, spilling over his clavicles and over a dark nipple. Harry trails four fingers down Malfoy’s chest and presses his lips to the skin under Malfoy’s ear, which is scented with shampoo and soap, in lieu of an answer. Harry mouths at the skin of Malfoy’s neck, squeezes his eyes shut; for all of Malfoy’s rudeness, he does have a point there.

And then Malfoy shifts his body once more so that their cocks slide in a rough, delicious drag, and then begins to rock slowly, back and forth and back and forth. Harry’s body curls up to meet Malfoy’s shallow thrusts almost instinctively; Harry’s mouth falls open, jaw slack.

Harry lets out a whimper, hands pressing against the wall, nails scraping against tile. Heat pools in his stomach, tingles in every muscle of his body. Malfoy is a storm – his fingers lightning on Harry’s skin, electricity crackling and popping, his lips as bold as thunder and his hair the white lining of a cloud – and Harry has no intention of seeking shelter.

“I’m going to suck you off,” Malfoy growls, his voice low, gravelly, provocative, right into Harry’s ear. Harry nods, chin brushing against Malfoy’s cheek.

And with that, Malfoy spins them around with grace. Suddenly, Harry is plastered against the tile wall and Malfoy’s mouth is trailing down the slope of Harry’s chest, past his belly button and down to the very tip of Harry’s cock. Malfoy drags his fingers down Harry’s front, nails scraping almost painfully against Harry’s skin, as if to remind them that there is _something_ wrong out there, that neither of them can afford to forget the fact that there is a war, brewing outside their very window, that there is a war inside this very household, every single second of the day.

Harry lets his head collide with the wall behind him with a clunk, weaves his fingers through Malfoy’s hair as the shower rains down on him.

“Malfoy,” Harry whimpers, because everything is hot and slick and wet and _delicious_ in the shower and even more so in Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy’s tongue swirls around the head of Harry’s prick, and Harry’s gut clenches with anticipation.

Malfoy’s mouth is warm and inviting; Harry can’t help but cant his hips slightly, seeking more of the friction, more of the heat. Malfoy’s hands find their way to Harry’s hips, pinning them against the wall so Harry cannot move.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps as Malfoy traces a single fingernail over the sensitive skin of Harry’s bollocks, as Malfoy wraps his lips around Harry’s dick, as Malfoy presses the flat of his tongue against the length of Harry’s dick and fucking _hums_ , the vibrations tingling in Harry’s groin.

And Malfoy pulls off with a bawdy pop, his lips swollen and cherry red. Harry tugs on Malfoy’s shoulders, pulls him up and kisses him hard, presses his body against Malfoy’s and squeezes the back of Malfoy’s neck.

Harry can’t get enough, he wants to press every inch of his skin against the valleys of Malfoy’s ribs, the hills of his collarbone and the mountains of his hipbones. “How do you do this to me,” Harry murmurs to Malfoy, whispers the words into the corner of his mouth.

And Malfoy – Malfoy whines, his erect cock pressing needy into Harry’s thighs; his tongue slips hot and insistent into Harry’s mouth. Harry pants and wraps a fist around both his and Malfoy’s pricks. The friction elicits a sharp gasp from Malfoy and Harry turns his head to press his teeth into Malfoy’s neck.                                                         

The heat in Harry’s stomach twists tight, coils into a thick knot and Malfoy runs his lips along Harry’s ear, his breath loud and irregular. “Come on, come on, Potter, give it to me,” he pants and Harry’s fist pumps furiously – he’s right on the edge, at the precipice, and Malfoy is right here, right here – he’s so close –

“Draco,” slips from between Harry’s lips, as the knot in his stomach dissolves into pure pleasure, as he comes with a gasp. And briefly, he registers that he didn’t mean to, it just slipped out –

Malfoy buries his face into the crook of Harry’s neck; Harry feels his hand still pumping his cock, hears Malfoy come leisurely with a soft sigh.

The showerhead pours hot water down their bodies, washing away all traces of sex. Malfoy’s chest rises and falls and Harry wants to keep him, wants to hold him here and live in the spaces between Malfoy’s breaths, learn how his breath hitches when Harry touches his wrist, how his heart races when Harry presses his tongue against his skin.

And Malfoy’s fingers still dig bruises into Harry’s waist. Water rushes down Harry’s chest and his damp hair sticks to his forehead.

Harry works his tongue on a smooth bit of Malfoy’s skin, right under his jaw, uses his lips, uses his teeth. If Harry can’t keep Malfoy here, he sure as hell is going to leave his mark as a reminder.

-

The last rays of sun begin to fade from the sky when Malfoy finally drags Harry from the steaming shower, wand buzzing as the two hour timer ends. Harry sees the sun set through the window and leads Malfoy down the stairs. Without the splint and with the fracture in his shin miraculously healed, Malfoy just clutches Harry’s elbow with his fingers as a guide.

“Once we put the mandrake into the solution,” Malfoy explains, his voice clinical and detached, “It’ll need to stew for at least two days and two nights. We can start the Oculus potion before that but,” Malfoy frowns, his face tight in concentration and Harry resists the urge to smooth the creases between Malfoy’s eyebrows, “The timing needs to be perfect.”

“Anyway,” Malfoy says, brushing it off, “Stewed mandrake first.”

Harry watches in fascination as Malfoy’s fingers trip over the silver knife, stumble upon the prepared mandrake root. Malfoy scoops up the chopped root with one hand, and finds the warm cauldron with the other. Even without his sight, Malfoy is more at ease with potions than Harry can ever hope to be.

Malfoy places the mandrake into the solution in the cauldron, leans back slightly when it hisses.

“I need you to watch this,” Malfoy says, in Harry’s general direction, “And tell me when it turns a dark red.”

Harry peers over the edge of the cauldron. The mandrake root has settled at the bottom of the clear solution, but even then, the solution has begun to take on a light orange shade. “How long?”

Malfoy’s thumb brushes over the silver signet ring on his ring finger. “Fifteen to twenty minutes.”

Harry hums in acknowledgement. He shifts slightly in his stool but other than that, his bones rest comfortably under his skin, his blood cool and steady.

Malfoy fidgets with the temperature of the cauldron a bit, tapping the pewter with his wand and causing the flame underneath the cauldron to flicker.

“You said the potion would take a week,” Harry realizes suddenly.

“I said that several times, Potter. Watch the mandrake.”

The cauldron bubbles, its contents a deep amber-orange, like the color of the sun just before it sinks below the horizon.

“Have you told anyone at the Manor? That you’d be gone?”

Malfoy breathes evenly.

“I considered it. But I believe the Dark Lord trusts me enough to not call for me. I don’t believe my absence will even be recognized by anyone besides the Dark Lord and Dolohov. Possibly Yaxley.”

“Yaxley,” Harry echoes. “The one who found you in Grimmauld Place.”

“The very same.”

“Does he not trust you?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Malfoy snaps and Harry peers into the cauldron again. The mandrake stew is bright scarlet. Harry wisely remains silent.

“After my father came back from Azkaban,” Malfoy starts of his own accord, and Harry watches his face for any signs of emotion. There is nothing. “He fell far from the Dark Lord’s graces. I failed in my attempt to kill Dumbledore, and in turn, the Dark Lord killed my mother.” Malfoy’s voice is bland and detached, as if he were reciting the steps of brewing a potion.

“Ever since then, Yaxley has been sidling up to the Dark Lord, attempting to become his right hand. Snape has fallen from favor ever since he killed Dumbledore – I suspect because he no longer had insight into the Order of the Phoenix – ”

Something in Harry’s gut lurches.

“And Bellatrix has gone too far over the edge to be of any use to the Dark Lord other than a tool to torture and to kill,” Malfoy continues. “Therefore, the only candidates left were me and Yaxley. Any preventative measures he can take, he will. Yaxley is ambitious, but he isn’t stupid. He’ll probe me and poke me but he knows better than to attempt anything permanent.”

Harry shivers.

“Anyway,” Malfoy says, “I’m not worried about Yaxley.” He taps his fingers on his wrist knowingly. “Dolohov is the one to watch for. He seems unambitious but he’s cruel and he’s dangerous. He’s _smart_ ,” Malfoy says, more to himself than Harry, “And that’s what makes him special.” Malfoy pulls at Harry’s shirt almost petulantly. Harry wonders what Malfoy was like as a child. “What color is it?”

“Dark red,” Harry says a heartbeat later, “It looks pretty thick.”

Malfoy nods and taps the pewter cauldron, and the flame underneath it grows in girth.

“Is Dolohov smarter than you?” Harry asks curiously, and Malfoy’s mouth curves into a sly smile.

“It’s irrelevant,” he says mysteriously and before Harry can ask why, the cauldron lets out a whine.

Malfoy leans forward in his stool, waving his hand in a way that allows the cauldron’s steam to waft toward his nose. He murmurs a cooling spell under his breath, then begins to stir the stew with a glass rod.

“Isn’t it odd,” Malfoy murmurs under his breath while simultaneously stirring. Harry has to lean in to hear Malfoy speak. “How the Dark Lord could’ve eliminated all the impure blood on the train that departed for Hogwarts on the first of September, this school year?”

Harry frowns. “What do you – ”

“Recently I had a rather enlightening conversation with Blaise Zabini – I’m sure you remember him,” Malfoy continues. He sniffs the steam wafting from the cauldron.

Harry nods.

“Well, it just so happens that on the first of September, the Dark Lord had sent two Death Eaters – Nox and Crabbe – to forcibly break their way into the Hogwarts Express. However, they did no damage – except for taking the Lovegood girl and Dean Thomas,” Malfoy recites.

“I know,” Harry says, “I saw them at Shell Cottage.”

“Not two months later,” Malfoy continues, “You tell me that Xenophilius Lovegood had divulged information on the Deathly Hallows to your friends – the Weasley, Longbottom, and Granger.” He removes the glass rod from the stew, tapping it against the lip of the cauldron to shake off excess liquid.

“And what does that tell us?” Harry says.

“Priorities,” Malfoy says. “It tells us the Dark Lord’s priorities. He could’ve eliminated all impure blood that day – all of the students were on the Express – but instead, he takes one girl and one boy. Presumably, Dean Thomas was simply in the same cabin as Lovegood, so Nox and Crabbe decided to take them both, but either way, the Dark Lord knew that Xenophilius was knowledgeable about the Hallows. He prioritized Lovegood as blackmail – probably for knowledge about the Hallows, or for your friends, since he knew that they would visit Lovegood as well. The Dark Lord cares more now about himself – his Horcruxes and his Hallows – than his cause.”

“That makes sense,” Harry says slowly, “But what does that have to do with anything? You-Know-Who cares more about himself than anything. So what?”

“That’s what makes him different from Grindelwald,” Malfoy insists. “ _Für das allgemeinwohl_ ,” he says, tongue rolling smoothly over the German words, “For _the_ _greater good_. The Dark Lord doesn’t care about a maxim or eliminating impure blood or anything like that – that’s what his Death Eaters want – that’s what the likes of Yaxley and Dolohov want.” Malfoy shakes his head, “The Dark Lord is desperate. He wants a weapon, a fallback, more than anything. And that’s what makes him dangerous.”

Harry can’t resist the urge to shiver.

-

Beans slop into two porcelain bowls; Harry ladles an even amount into each portion, resting the beans on a steaming bed of rice.

Malfoy sits on a kitchen stool, at the countertop. His feet don’t touch the ground; instead they dangle in the air. Harry is struck by how innocent it makes Malfoy look.

He places a silver spoon into each bowl and brings them to the countertop.

“Beans,” Harry says, pushing the bowl until it touches Malfoy’s forearm.

“I could tell.”

“How?” Harry finds a seat next to Malfoy, digs into his rice and canned beans hungrily. He looks up in time to see Malfoy tap his nose.

Outside the window, night shrouds the sky, stars blinking sleepily. The house is still.

Harry eats his beans without really tasting them. For the first time since yesterday, Harry thinks of Hermione and Ron. Something akin to guilt surges through him.

He’s thinking of the whitewashed walls of Shell Cottage when Malfoy interrupts his thoughts.

“Draco,” Malfoy says and Harry looks up from his bowl.

“What?”

Malfoy’s finished about half of his beans.

“You called me Draco,” Malfoy clarifies and Harry casts his memory back like throwing pennies over his shoulder. He recalls that accidental slip in the shower, and proceeds with caution.

He settles for a noncommittal, “Mhm.”

“You’ve never called me that before,” Malfoy says and it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking – whether he’s angry or pleased or irritated.

“Does it bother you?” Harry says carefully, keeping his voice nonchalant.

Malfoy shrugs, puts another spoonful of beans into his mouth.

“Although if you do call me Draco,” he says a minute later, and Harry’s stomach churns. “I’d have to ask whether we’re on a first-name basis because we’re fucking or because you want to maintain the illusion of friendship.”

Disappointment laces up Harry’s throat. It constricts his vocal chords so he doesn’t know how to say that he wants to keep the sound of Draco’s name hidden underneath his tongue like burying a seed under earth; doesn’t know how to say that every time Draco’s fingers found their way into his mouth, Harry would release Draco’s name on a small breath like blowing dandelion flowers into the wind; doesn’t know how to say that he likes the feel of Draco’s name on his lips.

So he remains quiet. And he lets the silence linger and stretch into minutes until Draco’s wand buzzes, alerting them to return to the basement.

 


	9. nine

“What shade of purple?” Draco snaps, his impatience taut and tingling under his skin.

“It’s pretty light,” Potter says.

“Lilac or lavender?” Draco asks through his teeth.

“I don’t – ”

“Lilac is lighter than lavender.”

“Lavender.” A pause. “I think.”

“Merlin,” Draco hisses under his breath. Draco had already added half of the ground unicorn horn to a simple potion base of alkaline. Potter said the potion immediately turned a bottled green and Draco had stirred quickly with the glass rod. “What about now?”

“It’s the same.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Draco, I’m fucking sure – I’m the one who can see – ”

“And now?” Draco cuts across him, skin prickling when Potter calls him by his first name.

“Lilac. Definitely.”

Draco takes a small bit of the inside of his cheek between his molars, clenches down to keep himself from spitting out a string of insults. His time at the safehouse has grated his nerves until they are red and raw, sensitive to the slightest of sentiments.

“Pour in the crystallized water when I say so,” Draco says, reaching out with an arm to grab Potter’s hand instinctively. It is outstretched when Draco snatches it. “ _Not_ right now.”

“Jesus,” Potter mutters. Draco removes his hand.

“You’re going to have to pour just a little at a time, until the potion turns the color of cinnabar.”

“Dark or light?”

“Cinnabar, Potter, just a bright scarlet. Honestly, you’d think – ”

“Harry,” Potter corrects absentmindedly and Draco wishes he had his eyes to roll them spectacularly.

“Just pour the water in slowly at first. If the potion turns darker than vermillion we’ll have to start over. I only have the one unicorn horn – ”

“So I better not fuck up, yeah,” Potter interjects smoothly; he sounds much too calm for Draco’s liking.

A sharp hiss fills the room when Draco assumes Potter begins to pour in the crystallized water. Draco refrains from gnashing his teeth.

“Slowly,” he repeats, then Potter says nothing, and Draco, more now than ever, feels completely blind: the sounds of the potion hissing cannot tell him what color the liquid is, what the viscosity of the unicorn horn is –

“Stop,” Potter interrupts his thoughts, over the steady stream of hissing.

“Stop what?” Draco snaps.

“Stop your worrying. I can feel you tensing up.”

And Draco swallows down a growl, tightens his fists until his knuckles clench, presses his signet ring into his thigh until the grooves bite into his skin.

“Cinnabar,” Potter announces a few minutes later.

Draco reaches out with his hand, tapping the cauldron so the flame underneath it will grow slightly in size. “Allow the potion to heat until it turns yellow,” he recites, mostly for Potter’s benefit. “If it bubbles then turn the heat down, but keep it at a low simmer. The yellow should be rather vibrant,” he supplements.

“Yellow,” Potter muses. “Vincent van Gogh’s favorite color was yellow.”

Draco tugs at his collar; the basement has begun to fill with potion fumes and sweat trickles at the back of Draco’s neck. “Van Gogh had xanthopsia and he killed himself before he turned forty.”

Potter sighs. “What next?”

Draco taps his fingers on the stone table. “Yellow?”

“Vibrantly so,” confirms Potter. “The mandrake next, right?”

Draco nods. His head has begun to ache. “Add the liquid of the mandrake stew first. Pour the whole thing into the sieve, stir ten times clockwise, then add the solid chunks of mandrake.”

“I’m going to use the silver sieve,” Potter says.

“It’s next to the mortar and pestle, if I remember correctly,” supplies Draco.

He hears silver clinking on stone as Potter picks up the sieve.

“What will you do? When you get back to the Manor?” Potter says. He sounds distracted.

“Whatever the Dark Lord wants me to do. I suspect not as much research.” Draco runs a thumb along his jawline. “And I’ll have to find a way to get my Father’s Pensieve as well. There were a few memories I’d wanted to sort through.”

“Yours?”

“No.”

“I think there’s a Pensieve here somewhere. Probably in the attic,” Potter says. “Fuck!” he exclaims a second later.

“McGonagall’s?” Draco ignores Potter’s outcry; most likely the idiot burned himself.

“Dunno,” Potter mumbles, and it sounds as if there’s something in his mouth. “It’s old but it works.”

Draco taps his thigh, thoughts whirring. “Have you put in the rest of the mandrake?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just beginning to turn bluish.”

Nodding, Draco says, “That’s fine. We’ll have to wait until it turns turquoise, and that can take anywhere between three and four hours.”

“Set a timer,” Potter recommends. “While we go to the attic.”

-

The darkness of the world has begun to feel more familiar now: Draco’s ears are fine-tuned to the shifting in the wooden structure of the safehouse, to the telltale creak of wood slats underneath both of their feet. Normally Draco would put more effort into walking without a noise, so no one would ever hear him, but his time in the safehouse has taken its toll on him. Draco is _tired_ ; his muscles are fatigued and his head throbs, leaving him absolutely exhausted.

Nevertheless, Draco realizes it, with a jolt, as he walks up the stairs to the attic. This shelter, this house, this home has grown familiar to Draco; its peeling wallpaper and stained carpets are no longer distasteful. The four walls do not loom around Draco like they once did.

But at the same time, Draco feels as though he’s been in this place for too long; Draco’s hands have grown idle here and he’s left with too much time for his own thoughts. Potter’s presence grinds against Draco’s walls like sandpaper, rubbing the knife-like edges of his mind smooth and dull.

Draco’s foot trips over a stair and almost instantaneously, he feels Potter’s hand grip his elbow. “You alright?”

“Fuck you,” Draco sneers almost instinctively, shrugging Potter off, but the other boy’s weight is still heavy at his side.

“I’m trying to help,” retorts Potter hotly, and Draco feels a rush of unbridled, unsettled anger rise up in his chest. Potter’s hand burns like a brand on Draco’s elbow; Draco transfers the weight of his body to the balls of his feet and neatly jabs Potter in the side with an elbow.

Potter hisses, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and then Draco’s pushed back suddenly, feet stumbling over a stairstep, his back colliding with the walls of the stairwell behind him. A flower of pain blossoms from the base of his spine.

There’s a cool rush of air and then Potter’s there – Potter’s hand still wrapped around Draco’s elbow, all but propping him up, Potter’s breath hot and angry on Draco’s chin, four of Potter’s nails digging crescents into Draco’s left shoulder. The banister digs uncomfortably into Draco’s back but Draco’s ears ring with anger and he can’t bring himself to care.

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?” Potter demands, and he crowds into Draco, pushing them against the wall of the stairwell. Draco’s hyperaware of the way Potter’s hipbones press into Draco’s thighs, the way Potter’s grip remains firm but resolutely not painful.

“What’s not the problem?” snarls Draco. Imbued with the sudden urge to touch, to feel, to _hurt,_  he reaches up to grab blindly for Potter’s collar. “There’s a war out there, Potter, and we’re _here_ , instead of fighting, we’re stuck in this godforsaken house – ”

“I told you, there’s nothing we can do. So stop being an asshole; we both know that there’s more out there, but for now we’re _here_.” Potter half-whispers, half-breathes it.

And Draco’s nerves are shot; his ego and his pride are both raw and bruised and sensitive to the touch; his thoughts are not subtle and they are not slippery, not vague nor unformed nor elusive –

Here, in the safehouse, Draco cannot hide from his thoughts; he cannot hide from these softer parts of himself and he does not want these things –

So he slumps back against the stairwell, lets the fight drain out of his muscles. Potter drags him up and pulls them up the rest of the stairs none too gently.

The air is musty and thick when they reach the attic. Draco thinks he feels warm sunlight streaming through glass windows. His robes suddenly feel constricting. He shuffles along in Potter’s wake, bumps into what seems to be a worn chaise. He sinks into it gratefully, knees quivering.

“Give me a second. It should be – ”

Books clattering. Glassware clinking.

Draco’s thoughts linger around each other, each one a separate entity but threatening to consolidate together to form a terrifying realization. They hang low like yellow fangs in the mouth of the Leviathan, in a penultimate moment before jaws snap.

“The edges of it are chipped. Do you reckon it’d still work? Or is it too dangerous to try?” Potter interrupts and Draco sucks in a breath of air abruptly, unaware that he was even holding his breath. His heart flutters and Draco thinks of chaos theory – one false step, one wrong move, and you leave your mark across eternity –

“I don’t – ” Draco begins, and his voice sounds faint. The world is too dark and he can’t fucking _see_ , he can’t read Potter’s expression, can’t see sunlight filtering into the attic or the silver signet ring on his hand – panic bubbles in his throat and he can’t fucking do anything about it – he can’t –

_Do not –_

“Hey,” Potter’s voice sounds closer, “You’ve gone white as a ghost.” The chaise dips with Potter’s weight.

“’M fine,” Draco says, his words an automatic self-defense – _innate immunity_ , he thinks wryly. His fingers flutter into fists and he swallows audibly. His head pounds.

Potter places a hand on his shoulder; Draco forces himself not to stiffen at the touch. He breathes through his nose evenly, concentrating on steady his breath. Something metallic rings in his ears and it takes some effort not to cradle his head in his hands and will his migraine away.

“Penny for your thoughts,” says Potter, quietly, after several minutes have passed.

Draco snorts. “I know you’re an idiot, but I hope you realize that every Muggle saying coming out of your mouth goes completely over my head.” He ruminates for a second. “What does that even mean?”

Draco feels the weight of the chaise shift as he shrugs. “It means I want to know what you’re thinking. Give me your thoughts and I’ll give you a penny. Er, a Knut, I guess.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Draco murmurs and sometimes Potter says things like this – he says what he means and he means what he says. It’s so typical of him and so different from what Draco is used to; he finds himself taken aback by honest comments like this.

“The question still stands,” Potter says and he sounds so fucking _earnest_ and pure, something straight out of Gryffindor’s golden common room. Draco feels both a stab of guilt in his gut and a carnal urge to crush that sincerity, that desire to help – the two impulses are hooks in his skin, tearing him in both directions. Suddenly, this evokes an image of a breached fish on a beach, its mouth gaping uselessly, choking for air, its belly soft and pale and screaming like a Siren for the kiss of a knife.

Draco imagines Potter’s face crumpling as he delivers a swift but neat verbal blow, collapsing the conversation behind him with a few select words. It would be effortless, it would be so fucking easy – Potter leaves himself unprotected and vulnerable as they converse, the delicate seams of their conversation practically begging Draco to drag a knife through and ruin the threads of their tête-à-tête, leaving nothing but destroyed fabric in his path.

And yet, there’s something in Potter that makes Draco want to prove himself, want to tell Potter that this is not it; there is _more_ to Draco, more than this façade he’s painstakingly put together – he is not a machine, unfeeling and uncaring, he can feel and he can hurt and he can _bleed_ –

“I never meant – ” Draco starts, then cuts himself off. His unfinished sentence lingers in the air – _I never meant to do this, I never meant to be here, I never meant to become –_

Next to him, Potter breathes softly and Draco imagines his blood-red heart, pumping tirelessly.

“Sometimes,” Draco starts again, “I imagine what it would be like – if Dumbledore hadn’t called me to his office, if I had killed him like I should’ve – ” his voice cracks. “But then, then I realize that it still would be the same – I’d still be in the same spot,” Draco cuts himself off, realizing that he’s said far too much but not quite enough at the same time.

“Always stuck in between,” Potter echoes and Draco nods just once, knowing that Potter will see.

“I think that sometimes, I’m not it,” Potter confesses a second later.

Draco remains silent, deliberately obtuse. Exhaustion rises underneath Draco’s skin, bubbling up in a relentless tide, and Draco can do nothing but let his body bob in the current, unable to resist.

“That maybe, it’s been Neville all along, and Dumbledore was just using me as veneer, to make everyone _believe_ that it was me, and so You-Know-Who would believe it were me too.”

“And protect Neville.”

“Yes.”

Draco opens his mouth – he isn’t really sure what he wants to say – but Potter speaks once more.

“And sometimes – sometimes I feel like I have no choice, that I only have one path to walk upon and my being here – my being _alive_ is just for one thing and there’s nothing I can do about it. I have one task to complete.

“And at this point, I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing.” Potter lets out a noise of exasperation. Draco mentally collects himself, pulling his thoughts together, feels a mask slip over his features.

“Not to be rude,” says Draco, and Potter lets out a scoff. “But,” Draco continues as if he weren’t interrupted, “This war isn’t all about you. There are other causes and other families out there who aren’t concerned about or the Dark Lord at all. The Order of the Phoenix would make it seem otherwise, but I’ve been to parts of England where they don’t give a fuck about you, or the Dark Lord.”

“I didn’t – ”

Draco tugs at his collar. “I’m not saying that I understand it myself; it’s much more intricate than one person can ever hope to understand. There are causations that have nothing to do with what you and I are fighting for. This war is more complicated than either of us can ever understand.”

“I can hardly begin to understand what I’m fighting for,” Potter admits. “At first I thought it was just light and dark, but I realized that there’s so much more than that – the world isn’t divided so neatly.”

“I suppose.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I never said that,” Draco corrects, “I just don’t care to label the sides of the war. I just know what I’m fighting for – I know what I want and that’s all that concerns me.”

Draco can feel the frown in Potter’s voice. “And what concerns you?”

“My life,” he says easily. Draco isn’t sure if he’s lying to himself or to Potter.  “My health and my safety.”

Potter lets out a noncommittal sound. “And do you feel safe here?”

The fabric of Draco’s robes is warm under his fingers. “More so than before,” he admits. His nails catch on a loose thread and he tugs at it. Potter shifts. “This safehouse is a crossroads,” Draco says. “Where you and I meet in between.”

“Always stuck in between,” Potter echoes.

_I never meant –_

“Let me see the Pensieve,” Draco says coolly, his crisp words cutting through the warm silence like a stone dropped into a serene pond.

“Right,” the chaise cushion springs back up as Potter gets up, “It’s cracked around the edges and at the bottom, and there’s no silver essence in it yet.”

There’s a loud scuffing sound and then the Pensieve is deposited into Draco’s lap, heavy and cool. His fingers wander over the rough exterior before dipping inside, reveling in the smoothness of the porcelain interior. The cracks are minuscule.

“The cracks are fine,” Draco muses, “They seem superficial – I doubt they go more than a millimeter below the surface.”

“How do you know?” Potter asks doubtfully.

“Because I, unlike you, use senses other than my sight once in a while,” Draco mutters distractedly, while pulling his wand from his pocket. He Summons a vial of silver essence. It comes into being with a small pop.

“Pour that into the basin, will you?”

Potter grunts. “I suppose I’ll be accompanying you?”

“How else will I know what goes on?” Draco answers bitterly. He retrieves a small, opaque vial from within his robes.

“Who’s is it?”

“Dolohov’s,” Draco says thoughtfully, cocking his head. He imagines Potter’s brows furrowing in bemusement. “I believe his conversations with the Dark Lord will bring some of his plans to light.”

“But you said – ”

Draco unstops the vial and holds it in the air. Potter’s fingers fold around it a heartbeat later.

“Dolohov believes I wanted the conversations for purely academic purposes – he thinks I’m a rather studious Death Eater,” Draco explains.

“You said he was clever, though,” Potter asks, sounds a little confused.

“Correct,” Draco says primly, coolly, does not care that Potter struggles to understand. “But even Dolohov has chinks in his armor.” Draco taps his wrist with two fingers. “Dolohov may be cruel and dangerous, but he harbors a predilection for things he shouldn’t.”

With that, Draco’s hand, warm and soft in sharp juxtaposition to the chill of his words, finds Potter’s as they dip into the Pensieve.

 

 


	10. ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book that Harry mentions is Demian by Hermann Hesse. In its preface, Hesse elaborates on his views of the human condition.

An emaciated figure stirs beneath a thin blanket.

Through a small window at the very highest tower of a dark fortress, moonlight slices a thin arc onto the concrete floor of a cell-like room. Two figures slip through the window like snakes, landing as lightly as vapor in the room.

A skeletal figure is visible underneath the blanket, rolling over toward the two dark figures. As the blanket slips from the figure, the movement reveals a skull of a face, eyes cracking open as if they haven’t opened for years. The frail man sits up, sunken eyes fixed upon the first figure – upon Voldemort.

Grindelwald smiles. Most of his teeth are missing.

“So, you have come. I thought you would, one day.”

The two figures look like Dementors, silent and unmoving, their cloaks draping around them, pooling on the concrete floor.

“But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”

Voldemort’s wand materializes from within his robes and the room suddenly feels twice as small, constricting and ice-cold, full of sharp fury. “You lie!”

“It was Dumbledore, the whole time, Voldemort, you cannot win – it was him!”

Voldemort sweeps across the room in a heartbeat, as quick and smooth as a viper striking. “How could you attempt to travel through time without the Elder Wand? There was no possible way – ”

Grindelwald throws his head back and cackles insanely, his entire chest shaking with the motion. “Kill me then, Voldemort! I never had it and I never tried travelling back – I, unlike Dumbledore, had nothing to regret! He was the one riddled with guilt, damaged beyond repair.” Grindelwald’s eyes are wide with vigor and zeal, his pupils constricted to infinitesimal pinpricks. Voldemort’s wand presses into Grindelwald’s jugular vein.

“Why would I lie? My death will not bring you what you seek – both you and I know this.”

The second figure cloaked in black shifts slightly, soundlessly.

Voldemort hisses, lips curled into a vicious snarl. His anger looms palpable in the air, rumbling with energy.

“Kill me then!” demands the old man, “You will not win, you cannot win! That wand will never, ever be yours – ”

And Voldemort’s fury breaks, like a storm breaking, lightning cracking the sky into pieces. Bright green light flashes throughout the prison room and the frail old body lifts from its hard bed, before abruptly falling back, lifeless. Voldemort rushes through the window, his vehement anger freezing cold. He disappears into the night and his wordless companion follows. As the second figure slips through the window at Nuremgard, the tower blurs into blackness with a soft click.

The scene at Nurmengard is replaced with Harry can only assume to be Malfoy Manor.

The room is painted gray, illuminated by a series of floating candles. Dolohov is draped in olive robes at the foot of the bed, his wand outstretched and face taut with concentration. On the charcoal-colored sheets of the bed rest a crystal ball and several large volumes of text, arbitrarily arranged.

“Where is he,” Draco murmurs, fingers slipping into Harry’s sleeve, lips brushing the skin underneath Harry’s left ear. The contact is most likely unintentionally but still elicits a shiver out of Harry. His tongue darts out of his mouth, licks his dry lips before answering Draco.

“I think – I think he’s in Malfoy Manor. It’s a gray room, and there’s books on the bed. And a crystal ball. His wand is out, I think he’s about to – ”

Just as Harry begins to formulate the words, Dolohov’s wand slashes across the air in a vertical line, then sharply upwards in a corkscrew motion.

“He just – ” Harry breaks off and outlines the motion on the back of Draco’s pale hand, fingernail scraping across the skin there. Draco dips his head, not unlike a swan curling its neck to dip into water, in a caricature of a nod.

Harry watches Dolohov who watches the objects on the bed with a strange kind of intensity.

“Nothing happened,” Harry frowns.

“I suspect nothing will happen,” Draco murmurs, his thin fingers wrapping around Harry’s wrist, frail as young white roots finding purchase in soil, “Not for the next few tries.”

And, true to Draco’s word, nothing does happen. Dolohov’s face becomes increasingly furrowed with every attempt; each wand movement slightly differs from the next, until finally, Dolohov murmurs, “ _Pondus revelio_ ,” and slashes his wand horizontally, then downwards in the same corkscrew motion.

“Pondus – Latin for weight,” Draco comments, leaning in closer to Harry. Draco smells of lemon and mint and Harry thinks he starts to salivate. “Revelio – to reveal. Has it worked?”

As Draco poses the question, what seems to be strings of dark, dark purple begin to writhe their way into being, congregating mostly around the dip in the mattress near the books and the crystal ball.

“There’s like – strings, strings around the crystal ball and the books, and it’s all around the room too, it’s like – ”

Draco nudges Harry forward until Harry halts in the middle of the bed, suspended in the middle of the illusory room. “Tell me what it looks like.” And Draco leans forward, as if he can see the delicate seams of purple forming a fabric over the bed, over the carpet. His eyes are still swollen shut but Harry can imagine the hunger in them, which is evident enough in his voice and in the line of his spine and the press of his lips.

“It’s like the purple is – is a blanket, and it just smothers everything, like – on the pillow, it covers the fabric in a criss-cross pattern, like graphing paper, and then there – by the books, right at the dip underneath the book, it sort of bunches up, and around the crystal ball too – I don’t really – ”

“Gravity,” Draco says, his voice lilting. “ _Pondus revelio._ Weight reveal. It’s supposed to reveal the force of gravity, as a visual representation.”

The beginnings of the realization are planted in Harry’s mind, but not yet sprouted – he feels close, tantalizing close –

“Gravity,” he ruminates aloud, watches Dolohov move his fingers through the purple threads. “He wants to see gravity. A visual representation of gravity…” he trails off. The memory ends with a soft click, Dolohov’s room melting into the peeling wallpaper of the safehouse attic, into sunlight filtering in through thick glass windows, falling on stacks of papers, towers of books and general paraphernalia.

Draco sits next to Harry on the worn, brown chaise.

"To see cosmic strings?" Harry ventures.

Draco nods. "Like with the crystal ball, denser objects are surrounded by more purple, because they have more gravitational pull. For something like a cosmic string, I imagine for there to be a solid purple dot."

"Why a dot? Wouldn't it just be a string?"

Draco leans back in the chaise until his back hits the attic wall. His head meets the wood with a clunk. "It's only a string in the spacetime continuum." Draco tugs at the collar of his robes, and Harry's eyes are drawn to the bob of his throat as he swallows, the dip of his collar bones.

"Imagine a Snitch, flying through the air. You capture the movement of the Snitch at every possible second, like," Draco pauses and Harry wants to press his nails into the skin of his neck. "Like a Muggle film," he says. "With the little squares of film, each one depicting the Snitch at a different moment in time.

"Now, if you take each film strip and cut it up, so that each square is separate from the other, then stack them – you see movement, right?"

Harry's lips twist into a frown. "Not exactly."

Draco pulls his wand from his pocket.

"Look," he holds the wand out in front of him, close to his lap. Draco begins pulling the tip of his wand upwards, as if drawing a vertical line through the air, leaving a condensed trail of yellow vapor in its wake. "That would be a Snitch, standing still in the spacetime continuum.

"Now," Draco flicks his wrist and the vapor disappears. "Let me try again, with the Snitch flying about."

Draco starts with his wand nearly in his lap, then pulls up, snaking side to side – but always moving up. When he pulls his wand to the side with a flourish, what's left is a snake-like pattern of yellow vapor.

"Each level," Draco holds his hand out flat, palm facing down, near the yellow vapor. "Represents another moment."

He moves his hand to the base of the vapor trail. "Here is moment zero. This is when the Snitch started moving." He moves his hand upwards just a hair. "Here is moment one. Moment two. Moment three." He continues raising his hand for each movement.

"I think I understand," Harry starts.

"Cosmic strings are just points, but they can shift, just like our Snitch did. In the spacetime continuum, it’s sort of like, seeing the whole movie all at once. The movement of the object creates a string along the continuum. The string isn't found at one point in time; the string is literally woven into the fabric of spacetime."

"And so," Harry ventures, "Bringing the two together would bring together massive amounts of gravity."

"It creates a curve in the fabric of the universe. Theoretically, you can get inside and the time dilation due to gravity would allow you to travel back through time."

"Theoretically," Harry says.

Draco delicately dabs the pad of his ring finger on one of his swollen eyelids. Harry thinks of the old motion pictures they would show sometimes in school, where a fancy woman would dab on eye makeup with a similar motion.

“If Dolohov’s already figured out a way to reveal gravity, they must be pretty confident in Magna Motus,” Draco remarks tersely.

“We know what they want to do,” Harry begins, “But how do we stop them?”

Draco shrugs, the delicate planes of his shoulders lifting gently before falling back down again. In the illuminated attic, Draco’s blond hair looks like gossamer; the erect line of his backbone built like the stacked bricks of a tower; his shoulders are a barricade and Harry wants to lay siege to every inch of his body, beleaguer the rigid angles until they melt like soft clay under his ministrations.

Harry clears his throat. “To the basement then?” and Draco’s wand buzzes in riposte.

-

Circassian blue swirls into a dark Aegean, as if the midday sky melted into the moments just after sunset in the space of a pewter cauldron. The half-finished potion laps at the edges of a cauldron, waves rippling gently.

“Indigo,” Harry announces.

Draco’s finger have unwound themselves from Harry’s wrist in the time it took them to descend the two flights of stairs to the basement but Harry reckons he can still feel the imprint they left on his skin, like pockets in moist soil after pulling weeds from a garden.

“Stir until deep orange,” Draco says, brushing away hair that has fallen into his eyes.

Harry retrieves the glass rod from across the table, dips it into the potion. “Clockwise?” he ventures.

“To continue the incorporation of mandrake into the potion,” Draco agrees, and as Harry stirs, the potion pales into a light orange. Each clockwise motion thickens the potion until it is soupy and viscous.

Draco remains quiet, fingers resting motionless on the countertop. The silence looms large in the basement, filling all the space between its four walls and it is constricting _,_ makes Harry shift uncomfortably until he finally thinks of something to say.

“I read that time is in constant fluctuation,” he blurts out, “that timelines are constantly overlapping and changing and oscillating.”

Draco lets his head dip briefly, and once again, Harry thinks of a bird.

“But some moments,” Harry continues, “Some moments stay the same forever, like nodes of a graph and I think – ” he cuts himself off, regretting his words.

“What,” Draco asks, and his voice is sharp.

“The potion's dark orange,” Harry says quickly, and Harry imagines that if they were fully functional, Draco's eyes would be narrowing in suspicion.

Harry swallows the rest of his sentence: _I think meeting you was one of those moments for me_ –

“Heat until the potion turns lavender,” Draco instructs regardless.

Harry nods before catching himself. “Right.” He murmurs a quick heating spell, watches the flame lick the bottom of the cauldron.

Draco sighs, propping his elbow onto the table. “The heating process takes at least a day. We'd be wasting time by sitting here watching the potion boil.”

Harry finds a seat on the stool next to Draco, his weary knees groaning in relief. “I could find McGonagall's books and we could go through them. Or we could go back into the attic and try to find something of use there.”

A harsh laugh is released by Draco. “You and I both know that's of little help to anyone,” he scoffs.

A smile paints itself across Harry's lips without thought. “That's how I've been feeling this whole time here.”

“God,” Draco rubs his eyes, “It must be horrible.”

“To say the least,” Harry grimaces. He idly watches the orange bubbles in the potion pop. “I think that, now, I've realized more and more about people.” Harry scratches his chin absentmindedly.

“Everyone has their flaws and everyone has their faults. The light side isn't all light,” his fingernails catch on his stubble uncomfortably, “Kingsley would go to extreme lengths to get what he wants done. Dumbledore – Dumbledore, he doesn't have the best moral compass either.” Harry shakes his head.

“The Dark side isn't all bad either,” he continues, and Draco's fist tightens on the table.

“I suppose,” Draco says, voice tight.

“Do you really?” Harry wonders, genuinely curious.

Draco's eyebrows furrow. “You have to remember, Potter – ”

"Harry," Harry corrects absentmindedly and he can see Draco resisting an impulse to protest before continuing.

"You have to remember that I was raised differently than you – I was raised to _find_ other people's weakness and their flaws; that's what part of being a Malfoy was. Seize up the enemy and figure out how to beat them."

"And me? What's my flaw?"

Draco turns his body ever so slightly, as if in contemplation.

"Your unwavering and irresponsible fondness for others," he remarks finally. "It leaves a very visible hole in your defense."

"And yours?"

Draco's lips tilt up, his half-smile perfectly symmetrical; Harry wants to kiss it.

The question lingers in the air, even as Harry leans in to fist his hand in Draco’s shirt, wrap his other hand around the back of Draco’s head, even as Harry places his mouth on Draco’s neck and leaves a wet kiss there. When Draco softly slips tongue into Harry’s mouth, softly slips his hand into Harry’s robes, Harry thinks that this is answer enough.

-

Wednesday afternoon finds Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy entwined in worn sheets, wearing nothing but their skins, breaths entangling in the air as they lazily swap kisses. Draco’s thigh is thrown carelessly over Harry’s hips, pale skin sharply juxtaposed to the skin of Harry’s thigh. Their bodies mold together, muscles slack, in the epitome of lethargy.

Sunlight streams into the room. Spring has snuck upon them overnight; the tall grass outside the safehouse – once yellow and dry – is now green and young, sprouting from rich, black earth. The sky is clear and the air fresh.

“I still don’t believe it was Dumbledore,” Harry notes, slightly out of breath, once Draco has finally pulled his mouth off of Harry’s to take a breath.

“Why not,” Draco yawns and Harry thinks of a satiated cat basking in the warm, spring sun. Draco rolls over, his flaccid cock brushing against Harry’s thigh as he moves.

“What reason did he have?” Harry says, genuinely curious.

“You’re an idiot,” Draco replies, although not unkindly. Draco stretches into the empty expanse of sheets to his right and cold air creeps into his now-vacant place by Harry’s side. “He was in love.”

Harry props himself up on an elbow to look at Draco. The blond’s eyes are still swollen shut but his expression is blank. Harry’s eyes rake over the tousled state of Draco’s hair, the swollen curve of his lips and the light freckles speckling his cheeks.

“With his sister,” Harry says, not quite a question.

“Mhm,” Draco agrees sleepily.

“And?”

“And Grindelwald as well,” mutters Draco. “He wanted to save the both of them.”

Something catches in Harry’s throat.

The bed sheets rumple around their bodies, forming soft valleys and peaks, their dips and curves accentuated by sunlight and shadows. Harry imagines a mountain range fit with snow-capped peaks and meandering rivers and undulating plains sculpted from bed sheets, stretching wide across the miles in between his body and Draco’s.

Harry’s fingers traverse across the plains, over wandering rivers, and scaling mountains before brushing against Draco’s cheek. Harry’s touch is feather-light, tracing the lines of Draco’s neck and down to his shoulder, as if Harry wishes nothing more than to reassure himself of the fact that Draco was still there. Satisfied, Harry’s fingers retreat back to their place by Harry’s side once more.

“And d’you enjoy watching other people sleep often?” remarks Draco a minute later.

“No.,” Harry says, affronted. And then after a moment, cheekily, “Just you.”

“How endearing,” Draco says, dry as a fine wine. Harry allows himself the pleasure of a private smile.

“Sometimes,” Harry says a little later, when the smile has melted from his face. He hesitates. His eyes fall onto the Dark Mark tattooed on Draco’s forearm, boldly black against the pale of his skin and the pale of the sheets. He admits slowly, “Sometimes I still wonder about you.”

“My motives, my loyalties,” Draco sniffs easily, lifting his waving his hand in the air with an air of nonchalance. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“I’ve always been worried about that,” Harry says, the edge of his lip curling. “I wonder about – about how you do certain things – ”

“Like what?”

“I dunno, I guess – like getting the memories from Dolohov, or, or even protecting our secrets from You-Know-Who.” Harry pauses. “I didn’t mean to ask you these questions. I mean, I don’t expect you to answer.” Draco’s eyelashes are translucent on his cheeks. “I don’t need you to answer but when – whenever I wonder about those things, I…I feel – ”

“Guilty,” Draco finishes.

Harry lets out a noise of agreement. Then, silence fills the room once more.

He readjusts his pillow, flipping it over so his cheek mashes against the cool material. His arms snake underneath the pillow and he lies on his belly, legs comfortably ensnared in the sheets. The warm sun makes the room pleasantly warm. Harry feels dangerously drowsy.

It isn’t until – as he is shifting to get into a more comfortable position – his stitches on his arm catch on loose thread that he realizes how absurd the situation is. There is no searing agony; the stitches tug on skin and it’s just enough to elicit a wince out of Harry. But it is enough to unceremoniously remind Harry of the war that they are caught in the midst of, that, while he basks in the sun, there are casualties every hour, that –

“Don’t,” Draco interrupts.

“I – what?”

“Don’t feel guilty,” Draco says primly. Draco shifts until he lies on his side. “To answer your questions, although the Dark Lord may possess great strength and magical prowess, my Occlumency skills are second to none.”

Harry leans forward.

“I’m capable of maintaining my composure under almost all circumstances. You’ve just got to keep your mind blank, focused on your objective. Don’t allow yourself to wander.”

Harry hums in acknowledgement.

“And as for Dolohov,” Draco lets a half-smirk, half-grimace grace his features. “His staggering intelligence cripples him as a Death Eater. There is no one else who understands what he does or what he’s saying,” he shrugs. “I’m the only one who understands him.”

Harry shifts slightly. The sheets rasp enticingly against his skin, and the air presses warm around them. It feels as though the entire world has slowed; it feels as though they live between breathes, in the shallow pauses between the rise of their chests. The world is soft and subdued and mellow, waiting quietly for Harry’s words.

“I just – sometimes, it seems as though what we’re doing, it – it’s in vain. Like the Order wants to stop You-Know-Who because he’s _evil_ , because he’s some heartless power-hungry being, but he isn’t.” Harry frowns at himself. “I mean, no one can be really, truly, completely evil, can they? And even if the Light side wins, who becomes in charge then? What if the next Minister of Magic turns out even more horrid than You-Know-Who?”

“There’s no way to stop it,” Draco muses, “There’s no way to stop people from becoming like that because it could potentially be anyone. Every person has primal desires, whether they are for money or power or sex – they’re inherent. At least, that’s what I believe.”

Harry buries his cheek further into the pillow. He thinks of Draco when he sits pliant in the ugly armchair on Friday evenings, in front of the popping fire. He thinks of the grace in Draco’s limbs, loose from a cup or two of Firewhiskey. He thinks of his carnal desire to bite down on Draco’s mouth, to dig his hands into Draco’s robes and bury under his skin and then Harry thinks that Draco could be right.

“I don’t really think people can change,” says Draco a moment later, ever so quietly, almost as delicate as a whisper. “Everyone has that ounce in them. That ounce of humility or honesty or morality in them – even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

Harry stretches, shifting closer to Draco. The sheets rasp against his skin once more.

“And that little bit can proliferate it something much more substantial. It just needs the right factors to activate growth.”

“Have you grown?” asks Harry. “Or are you just so good at pretending everyone thinks you has?”

Draco moves like lightning; one moment the two of them are lying next to each other and then the next, Draco has Harry pinned down lightly underneath him. Draco’s hips press comfortably into Harry, and it feels fucking _glorious;_ his skin is cool and impossibly smooth against Harry; where their bodies meet, their skin tones contrast each other like keys on a piano.

“What do you think,” Draco all but purrs, lips brushing against the sensitive skin under Harry’s ear, rolling his hips gently, subtly.

And Harry groans in answer, as Draco rakes his nails down Harry’s thigh, forgets everything but the sound of Draco’s name.

-

The sun has slipped from the horizon, leaving Harry’s room slightly chilled without light. Harry sits on the carpeted floor, back against a wall, facing his bed and his window. A book lies in his lap. It’s been opened to the first page for what seems to have been a long time. Candlelight flickers across the page.

“How many,” Draco asks, his voice rough with disuse. It is the first sound that either of them have made since Harry left the warmth of the bed, opting inside to pull on his robes and read on the floor. Harry looks up from his book. The sheets rasp against each other as Draco shifts.

Harry blinks.

“How many Horcruxes left?” Draco reiterates.

Harry startles. “I don’t think – ”

“Drop the bullshit,” Draco interrupts bluntly. His words are sharp, cutting through the comfortable aura that had settled in the room.

Harry wets his lips with his tongue. “Hermione and Ron destroyed the locket already. There’s still the diadem from Ravenclaw and Nagini left.”

“Three,” Draco drums his fingers on his pillow. The motion causes the bedsheets to slip from his shoulder, revealing enticingly milky skin.

“We’ve got three and we have three left.”

Draco jerks his head ever so slightly, further into his pillow.

“What?”

“Only three,” Draco says. His voice is strained.

“Three is good. It’s better than nothing.”

“It’s not all of them.”

“And what?” Harry frowns, “You expect us to have all of them?”

“Yes,” Draco snaps and his face is drawn taut with impatience. Harry can read the agitation underneath his words, the trepidation in the line of his shoulders. He eyes the slight tremor in Draco’s hand.

“It’s not the Horcruxes,” he says, not quite a question.

“It’s the time-travel,” Draco hisses, electric. He sits up suddenly, hands curled at his sides. “You have to understand the gravitas of the situation – if he succeeds – ”

“But you said yourself it would take time; they don’t have the necessary – ” Harry trails off when Draco shakes his head. His lips are thin and pale; the sheets have artfully fallen into a pile around his hips.

Harry can sense the current of dread running through Draco’s body and it makes his stomach clench.

“It is very dangerous to underestimate what they are capable of,” Draco says finally, his words mild. But Harry reads the warning in his tone, the silent threat in the tense way Draco holds his body.

“They were in the Forest of Dean,” Harry starts, to fill the cloying silence that has found its way into the room. “And they’d camped out on the edge of a pond. And they saw the sword of Gryffindor, frozen in a lake – ”

A small frown graces Draco’s lips.

“I know, it sounds absurd, but one of them – Neville I think – cracked open the waters and dived in. I think Ginny pulled him out and they used the sword to destroy the locket.” Harry shakes his head disbelievingly. “They’d sent me a Patronus. They found the sword and used it right away to – ” Harry stops abruptly. He blinks.

“Oi, Potter. Are you still there?” Draco calls out and Harry doesn’t bother to correct him.

“The cup – they have the cup. I remember, Ginny told me the day they came back from Malfoy Manor; they’d gone off to Gringotts to get the cup – ” he says quickly.

“Unless they didn’t succeed.”

Harry lets out a shaky breath, puts his head into his hands and silently berates himself for not asking about the trio sooner.

“Worrying about it won’t do any good.” Draco’s voice is muffled, as if he’s speaking into a pillow.

“Will it?” snaps Harry.

“What’s the point of wasting your energy for something that you don’t even know happened or not?” Draco counters and Harry sighs.

Abruptly, a tendril of guilt worms its way into Harry’s gut. Here, he’s been indulging himself, satisfying his body’s carnal desires; he feels satiated and rested while Hermione, Ginny and Neville have been freezing themselves to death in the forest. It’s a well-worn path that Harry’s mind has strolled upon, but strikes him with the same pang of guilt regardless.

His thoughts wander off the beaten path as he raises his head, eyes falling on Draco. Even after alternating most of the day between fucking and dozing off, Harry feels his blood rising as he rakes his gaze along Draco’s prominent spine, the knobs of his backbone bulging from under his skin.

Draco is an enigma. He is cold some days and soft on others, a living, breathing contradiction – his soft skin, hot blood, wet mouth against his sharp words, flinty eyes, tense muscles. He has willpower strong as cement and a mind as sharp as steel, his quick wit and endless knowledge tucked behind a smile that reveals too much teeth.

On cold days, his voice is unwavering, his eyes are relentless. He is an apex predator, reticence ever-present in the sharp line of his jaw. And other days, the hard lines of his body loosen like warmed wax, muscles pliable and lax. Those days he walks with loping grace, elegance oozing from his skin. Harry wants to break down the façade, beleaguer the city Draco has built around himself.

Harry clears his throat. His eyes shift downward to his book. The silence is heavy, thick and uncomfortable and, even though Harry knows that Draco cannot see, he feels the weight of Draco’s gaze on him.

“I cannot tell my story without reaching a long way back. If it were possible I would reach back farther still – into the very first years of my childhood, and beyond them into the distant ancestral past.”

Draco shifts from his spot on the bed as Harry reads aloud. Harry glances up when he hears fabric rasping against fabric as Draco worms himself back underneath the sheets.

“Novelists, when they write novels, tend to take an almost godlike attitude towards their subject,” Harry continues reading. Harry runs his pointer finger further down the page from which he’s reading. Outside, the sky is littered with stars twinkling lazily.

“But every man is more than just himself; he also represents the unique, the very special and always significant and remarkable point at which the world's phenomena intersect, only once in this way and never again.” Harry pauses here. “Every man's story is important, eternal, sacred; and that is why every man, as long as he lives and fulfills the will of nature, is wondrous and worthy of every consideration.”

Draco’s head dips slightly and Harry watches candlelight fall on his lips.

“Yet what a real living human being is made of seems to be less understood than ever before,” Harry continues reading, voice filling the room until Draco’s wand buzzes in reminder.

-

“Wormwood until orange?”

Draco nods in answer. “It’s the last step in the potions book but if necessary, we can dilute the potion with some of the Crystalized water – ”

“There’s still some upstairs,” Harry agrees, sprinkling the last of the wormwood into the pewter cauldron. “I’ll get that now,” he says quickly, making his way upstairs before Draco can reply.

As he ascends the stairs, Harry reflects on how the dynamic of their relationship has changed – for the better – after the fight outside the safehouse, after their respective injuries.

He finds the Crystalized water in the kitchen and brushes off his stray thoughts.

“Draco,” Harry calls out, as he steps off the stairs, down to the basement, to where Draco waits. The damp air hits Harry and he breathes in relief, the coolness of the basement sharply juxtaposed to the stuffiness of the kitchen upstairs. “I’ve got – ”

He breaks off as he takes in the sight before him. Draco stands by the countertop, potion still steaming in its cauldron, but an empty vial clutched in his hand. He’s turned toward Harry, and his eyes fully functional and healed.

“It worked,” Harry says, flask hanging from his hand limply.

And Draco looks at him. “It was ready,” he says. “I could smell it.” His eyes are clear and sharp but his countenance is emotionless – detached and clinical. He tilts his head to the side, like a fox contemplating a rabbit –

“Draco,” Harry repeats and at this, Draco turns to face Harry completely, every taut muscle of his body a warning.

And Harry’s pulse quickens, heat pooling in his gut because some primitive part of him recognizes the fact that Draco is dangerous and unpredictable, realizes once again that Draco is a _predator_ ; he is pernicious and mercurial. But Harry also realizes that he cannot _stop_ , cannot stop wanting every single part of him.

“Again,” Draco says, and his voice rough, like a match scraping against the striking surface of a matchbox, “Say my name again,” and he strides toward Harry.

“Draco,” Harry obliges and lets his jaw fall slack as Draco presses their mouths together with force.

“Again,” Draco mutters, around Harry’s lips, his voice rough like the rose-colored edges of a deep and ragged wound, “Say my name again,” and Harry obliges. “Draco,” he repeats and Draco’s body is taut – he is pulsing, barely-contained energy waiting to be harnessed _–_

“Draco,” Harry says and Draco presses his thumbs into Harry’s hips, nails digging into skin, “Draco – ”

It feels as if Draco is desperate, as if he’s struggling with something inside of himself and Harry wants nothing more than to help him – it feels something like they might’ve engaged themselves in at Hogwarts, when Draco was struggling with his task to kill Dumbledore and Harry trying so hard to help him –

Draco’s actions are rough and unsure, his bottom lip quivering slightly, eyes wide and pupils blown. “Every time you say my name,” Draco says under his breath, presses harder with his nails into Harry’s skin, “It’s a reminder, that I’m here, and it is me – it’s now and every time you say my fucking name – ”

Draco growls, “It grates against my raw nerves – when you say it I can’t forget and it fucking _hurts_ – it stings and it reminds me of my past,” he seethes, “Why I’m here and what I’m doing here and I can’t forget – I’ve, I’ve grown soft here and I can’t be – ”

“Draco,” Harry says, softer.

“I can’t be soft,” Draco snaps abruptly, releases his grip from Harry’s hips and pushes their bodies away from each other like positive ends of two magnets nudged together then propelled apart, “I can’t be _soft_ – you don’t _understand_!” he shouts, his eyes like charged batteries, crackling with voltage.

Harry’s blood accelerates through his veins. “Help me to understand,” he says softly. He licks his lips. “I want to understand.”

 _It reminds me of what I’m doing here,_ Draco had said.

“You don’t know what I’m going through,” Draco hisses. “You can never understand.” And Draco is a lightning storm, his energy crackling palpably in the air, his entire body charged.

“It’s not all about you,” Harry narrows his eyes, “I’m going through things as well, you know, I’m stuck here – in this hellhole – looking after you; it isn’t an ideal situation for either of us!”

 _I’ve grown soft here,_ he had said –

“First of all,” Draco snarls, “It’s not my fault that you were the one who cursed me. And secondly, it was _Dumbledore_ who left you here – you were the one that agreed to it in the first place! That old – ”

“Don’t,” Harry retaliates warningly, “Don’t talk about him – he’s more of a man than you could ever wish to be.”

_I never meant –_

“Oh yes, the greatest wizard of his time,” he hisses, and Draco is _electric_ , wires running up and down his veins, currents carrying impulses through his limbs. “He left you here – he stranded you here, left you here with me just like how he’d leave a pig to fatten up for slaughter – ”

“He was better than you,” Harry taunts, stepping back, daring Draco to come closer, “His motives were better than yours – he wanted to better the Wizarding World – but you? You just want to save your own fucking skin, like a _coward_.”

And it seems as though Draco’s entire body is one enormous pulse of energy waiting to be released, electrical potential at the brim of overflow, and Harry wants to flip the switch and let Draco release his energy before it eats him up alive.

_What I’m doing here – I never meant –_

“I never hurt anyone,” Draco snaps. “I might’ve been a coward, but no one was hurt when I did what I did!”

“Oh, right,” Harry loads his answer with sarcasm, narrowing his eyes, but in the back of Harry’s head, he remembers Draco’s half-smile when he’d asked what Draco’s weakness was – what his flaw was –

“I didn’t kill my sister, I didn’t – ”

Remembers the tenderness of Draco’s lips as they pressed against his neck in answer –

_I’ve grown soft here –_

Then suddenly, Harry is calm. He realizes that this is the penultimate moment, the darkness of the sky before lightning splits it into a thousand fragments.

“I didn’t want mass genocide; I didn’t want to go back in time,” Draco insists, his eyes positively crackling with fervor, “And I didn’t fall in love with the most powerful Dark wizard of my time!”

“No,” he agrees, placid, “You fell in love with me.”

The change is immediate.

The next few moments pass by in what seems like a heartbeat.

All energy in the air has dropped and the room abruptly feels cold. Draco’s expression melts indifference – this is his true Death Eater mask; this, the ultimate façade, the ultimate disguise –

And in this moment, Harry knows with every fiber of his being that with those six words, he has undeniably changed the rhythms of their relationship; the discharge has ripped through the tentative strands of their friendship, leaving a gaping chasm between the two of them.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Draco says coolly, a minute later. Seeds of fear begin to plant themselves in the garden of Harry’s chest. Harry was unbelievably, shockingly _wrong –_ he had misread the signs and drew the wrong conclusions, naively ruining everything that was cultured in the past months –

“Draco,” Harry says quickly, pleadingly, “C’mon, I didn’t – ”

“I’ll be back Friday evening,” Draco says crisply and politely, not as though he were ripping away any ties holding him back with Harry, not as though he were disregarding any progress they’d made; he speaks without emotion and attachment, as if Harry were nothing more than a handler and Draco his asset.

And as Harry opens his mouth, Draco turns on his heels, robes flaring in a corkscrew motion around his ankles, strides through the living room and through the front door, out of the safehouse.

Harry hears the soft crack – the telltale sign of Draco’s departure – a moment later and it feels like the recoil of a gun. Soft crack, sinking into his gut like a bullet burying itself in flesh. Soft crack, like an irreplaceable loss and an undeniably irrevocable death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is interested, a video of an explanation of Einstein's space time continuum can be found [here](https://youtu.be/aNuaHOx2X1s?t=19m28s). Start from 19:28.


	11. eleven

## 

“Go on then.”

“It’ll be easier if I just read it to you,” Potter replies, flipping through a dog-eared book. The sound of pages rasping against one another fills the room. Outside, the world is dark and gentle, indifferent to their findings.

“Well, it talks about Einstein and some of the stuff you told us about,” Potter begins, “But I’ll just skip to – here. Er, I’ll just start then. The – the multiverse is a theory in which our universe is not the only one, but states that many universes exist parallel to each other. These distinct universes within the multiverse theory are called parallel universes.”

The world blurs for a moment, then rights itself after a soft click.

Potter pours raw oatmeal into water; the night is dull outside glass windows. It is still the kitchen of the safehouse.

“It’s just – Dumbledore believed in the greater good as well. And before, I thought he was – ”

A pan clatters onto the stove and Potter pulls a drawer open, slides it shut.

“He left me here,” he says quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it, ever since I got here. He imprisoned me in this safehouse because he believed in the greater good – because he thought he could raise me up like a – a lamb for slaughter. He won’t let me out until the right time and I don’t even know how I’ll beat You-Know-Who – I don’t – ”

He opens a tilted cupboard and pulls out porcelain bowls.

“He didn’t even tell me how I’m supposed to beat him,” Potter murmurs.

Click.

Harry Potter sits on the floor of his bedroom, back to the wall, book open in his lap. His tongue flickers out from between his lips, darting out to wet his red mouth. “Hermione and Ron destroyed the locket already. There’s still the diadem from Ravenclaw and Nagini left.”

“Three,” Draco says.

“We’ve got three and we have three left.” Harry’s eyes are still brilliant beneath his glasses; his hair is rumpled and lips swollen.

The memory blurs into nothingness without a sound.

“How?”

The Dark Lord sits at the head of the long table. He isn’t looking directly at Draco; instead, he watches Nagini slithering across the wooden surface of the empty dinner table.

“How did they find out?”

His words are icy and metallic, betraying nothing of the anger written into the whites of his clenched knuckles, the thin line of his pursed lips.

“He went back,” Draco manages. “Dumbledore went back and he spoke to one of Hepzibah Smith’s house-elves; he was incredibly thorough, my Lord – ”

The Dark Lord waves a pale hand through the air, slicing through Draco’s sentence like a serrated knife. He says, “Your relations with the Order have been – _enlightening._ I do believe that this… disclosure will change our plans.” When he speaks, his teeth are gritted, eyes keen and vicious. “You are dismissed.”

The Dark Lord’s lips curl in a facsimile of a smile, but it looks more like a grimace; the enamel coating his teeth glints in the harsh light of Malfoy Manor’s dining room.

His throat is dry; instead, Draco dips his head in answer. He turns smoothly – not quickly – and paces from the room.

His feet move of their own accord, out of the dining room into the grandiose hallway and then, down the hallway, through the foyer and through the enormous French double doorway that leads out of the Manor. He’s taken about four steps from the front door when someone calls his name from behind him.

He turns.

Nox stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, hands folded into his pockets.

“Nox,” Draco greets, not moving forward. He keeps his countenance one of polite disinterest.

The Death Eater’s mouth is twisted into a lopsided sneer. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it, nodding his head jerkily in the direction behind him. Back into the Manor.

A tendril of unease unfurls from its tight coil in Draco’s chest. He concentrates on keeping his breath even. Under his polished dress shoes, gravel crunches sickeningly as he begins to pace toward the Manor once more.

“Garden,” Nox finally says tersely. Draco eyes his posture – the casual curve of his spine, the way he favors his right leg – lets his eyes flicker over Nox’s left knee before turning sharply, around the façade of Malfoy Manor to the south side of the house, towards the garden.

Sunlight drenches the backyard. To Draco’s immediate right, a lone peacock stands under the shade of a wisteria crawling up one side of the garden’s walls. As Draco approaches, the peacock delicately begins to tread in the other direction. Water trickles gently over the stony countenance of a cherub fountain. Dolohov stands less than a yard away, draped in olive-colored robes.

“Draco,” the man says carefully, delicately; his tone is smooth, leaves space for Draco's answer. ”You’ve been gone.” He turns and walks towards Draco. His hands are empty; his features impossible to read. Draco slips his right hand into his robes.

“So I have,” he says neutrally, and Draco thinks of bubbling potions and puckered apples.

Dolohov draws closer, his pace slow and careful, until he comes close enough to grab onto the belt loops of Draco’s pants and crowd him into the shade of the wisteria.

“Off to see your dear godfather?” Dolohov asks lowly, and before the words have left his lips, Draco has the tip of his wand digging into the fabric covering Dolohov’s solar plexus, _Crucio_ on the tip of his tongue.

“Godfather?” Draco repeats. He winces at the surprise in his voice.

Dolohov murmurs, “Be a little louder, why don’t you,” then pushes Draco until the material of his dress shirt catches on the sticky bark of the wisteria, its ragged edges digging into Draco’s shirt. One of Dolohov’s hipbones juts sharply into Draco’s stomach. Draco’s knuckles clench around his wand; Draco’s throat clenches the vitriol in the back of his mouth.

“Yaxley’s watching,” Draco hears himself say. His voice sounds as though it’s underwater. Draco feels like a vessel, his movements planned and automatic, as if he’s watching the scene unfold like an out-of-body experience.

Dolohov tilts his head slightly upwards, somewhere toward one of the West Wing’s many windows.

“So?” A dangerous smile to flit across Dolohov’s face; the man bares his teeth and the viciousness hidden behind his grin colors his voice, flickers in his eyes. “He wants a show then?” Dolohov reaches out, quick as lightning, drags the tip of Draco’s wand down his chest, over his belly and then lower still –

“Take this seriously,” snaps Draco. He lets out a frustrated growl before jerking his wand away from where it rests on Dolohov’s belt.

“You can’t go to his house now,” Dolohov says lowly, turning his head away from the Manor windows.

“And why’s that?”

“The Dark Lord is there,” Dolohov mutters, “And he’s angry. I would wait, if I were you.”

Draco’s stomach lurches.

 _The plangentine is a rare fruit that ripens in the winter. It grows under peculiar conditions, and only in the presence of magic_.

“Will he – ”

Dolohov’s grip loosens and one of his hands slide up to cup Draco’s hip for a moment. Then he turns his cheek, lips brushing against Draco’s neck in answer before abruptly pulling away. Draco thinks of cavern snakes that live below water their whole lives, without sun their whole lives, their bodies bleach white and their pupils blown, their skins slimy and cold. Draco resolutely does not shudder.

_The plangentine is gathered in the evening and must be boiled until soft to be used in potions._

“Yaxley’ll just have to wait for another time,” Dolohov announces, rubbing at the sleeve covering his Dark Mark. “Bellatrix calls.” The corner of his mouth pulls up. Dolohov turns his face upwards to look at a high window. Draco follows his gaze and manages to catch a glimpse of Yaxley turning away from the garden.

Dolohov looks back at Draco for a moment, eyes as cold as flint, before turning to head back into the Manor. “I’ve something to show you,” Dolohov says carelessly over his shoulder, “Come to my room later.”

 _It has the quality of a raw persimmon, firm to the touch and slightly tart_ –

-

His steps are even, his breathing is measured, his thoughts are perfectly still.

With every breath, he inhales the smell of Malfoy Manor: the elaborate wax candles and Tyrian purple paint, lacquered wood and varnished gold frames of heavy paintings. It feels as though he’s never left.

Draco is completely silent as he walks down the second floor corridor in the East Wing of Malfoy Manor. He wonders how many time he’s walked the length of this exact corridor.

Every door in the hallway is closed, save for the one on the far right at the very end of the corridor. Draco walks to the open door, leans into the doorframe to examine the room in front of him.

The walls are painted gray, illuminated by a series of floating candles. Dolohov sits on his bed, scribbling on a scrap piece of parchment. His customary black Death Eater robes lie in a puddle at the foot of his bed; instead, he wears his own olive-colored ones.

The room feels cold, even in comparison to the frigid halls of Malfoy Manor.

“Is that you, Draco?” Dolohov says, still turned away from the doorway.

Draco pushes himself off the doorframe, makes his way into the room. His steps are carefully paced, his breathing is moderate and his hands are steady. He makes his way through the room, picks his feet over a neat pile of books. Draco imagines the purple threads elucidating the shape and space of gravity in the room; he envisions the threads condensing around his body as he travels through the room, as if his body were a magnet for the strings.

He lowers himself onto the bed, next to Dolohov.

Dolohov turns to look at Draco, and his eyes are the same color as unrefined silver ore, slivers of emotion visible through dry cracks. Suddenly, Draco's throat feels parched and uncomfortable.

The moment hangs heavy between them, thick and sultry, until Dolohov cuts through it with, “I've had something I've been meaning to show you.”

Draco watches as Dolohov floats a flickering candle from the candelabra in the corner. Wax drips slowly down the side. He proffers the candle to Draco with a flick of his wand; Draco reaches out to grasp the base of the candle. He eyes the drop of melting wax warily, but says nothing.

Dolohov turns, situates himself in such a way that both of their bodies face the candle like hands cupping a flame.

“Plato believed there were five geometric shapes that made up the world,” Dolohov begins and something coils in Draco’s gut.

“Each one symbolized an element,” Draco finishes. “I read your book.”

Dolohov tilts his head slightly, “Sneaking into my room, Draco?” and Draco allows a half of a cold sneer to dance on his lips in reprisal. "You've read the text?"

"Perhaps,” Draco says slowly, rolling the syllables smoothly in his mouth before letting them fall.

Dolohov lets his head dip infinitesimally, and although their conversation is realized through words, it is mostly body language – tiny, subtle movements too minuscule for anyone else to detect.

“Water,” Dolohov says, “Symbolized by the icosahedron.” He draws the figure into Draco's thigh and Draco’s tongue darts over his lips. “Air, symbolized by an octahedron.” Dolohov uses his nail, scrapes against the fabric of Draco's dress pants.

“Earth, as a hexahedron, fire, a tetrahedron, and the aether as a dodecahedron.” Dolohov draws the figure for each one. “The tetrahedron, fire, is simplest of the five, easiest to manipulate and maneuver.”

Draco glances at the candle in this hand. “And have you?” he asks.

Dolohov chooses not to answer; instead, he tucks his other hand into his robes, withdrawing his wand and holding it over the flame.

The room seems to freeze – nothing moves besides Dolohov's chest, rising and falling evenly – when Dolohov purses his lips and the flame _flickers_ , darts slightly to the left before doubling, tripling in size, until all Draco can see is the giant flickering orb. Dolohov twists his wrist and the flame promptly puts itself out, leaving nothing but smoke in its place.

Draco's mouth falls slack.

“Earth,” Dolohov continues, lightly, as if they were discussing the weather. “Hexahedron.” He Vanishes the candle in Draco's hand and then points to a pot of dirt on his desk. The dirt lifts from its mound, floats in the air for a heartbeat before folding in on itself, forming a neat pyramid on Dolohov's gray desk.

“Water,” Dolohov says, and he points his wand to the lecanomancy basin in the corner of his room. “As an icosahedron,” and as he draws an arc through the air with his wand, three droplets of water simultaneously follow the movement, soaring through the room without a single one giving in to the drag of gravity.

“Tell me,” Draco narrows his eyes, ignores the lurch in his chest, “Tell me how.”

The corner of Dolohov’s mouth twitches. He arches his wrist, angling it in such a way that the water droplets splatter onto Draco’s bare neck; he hardly flinches at the cold contact. “Dolohov,” Draco’s voice is rough, “Tell me. You have to – ”

“Air,” Dolohov speaks over Draco, “Octahedron,” and his eyes are calculating.

Cool air rushes past Draco’s ears, racing across the wet skin of his neck; he shivers in response. Dolohov’s eyes narrow with amusement.

Draco’s not sure what Dolohov wishes to say next, but whatever it is is lost in the sharp, familiar sting of their Dark Marks burning in sync.

“Yaxley,” Dolohov murmurs softly. His expression is unreadable. For a moment the two of them sit there  – Draco blinks rapidly, waiting for the burn of his Dark Mark to recede.

And then Draco stands up smoothly, robes rippling, begins to tuck his wand into his sleeve. “We should be off,” he says easily.

“Yes,” Dolohov says, although he does not stand up.

Then, “I’ll be down there in a moment, Draco.”

Draco recognizes a dismissal when he hears one.

Although Draco is sure the sun still streams outside, the dark walls of the Manor absorb all light, save for the yellowy flicker of candelabras and chandeliers. Once more, Draco thinks of the cavern-dwelling fish; after spending eons in the dark, their bodies have become amorphous and colorless. Draco curls his lip at the thought.

When Draco enters Malfoy Manor’s dining room for the second time that day, his eyes immediately look for the Dark Lord. When Draco cannot find him, he fixes upon the figure seated in the chair at the head of the table: Corban Yaxley.

To his immediate left sits Bellatrix Lestrange, her hair unruly and her face gaunt. Around them sits the closest, highest ranking Death Eaters. Around them stands the Death Eaters whom Draco cannot name; faces obscured by their masks, they stand completely motionless.

It is these faceless, nameless, rankless Death Eaters that Draco stands behind. He keeps his face partially obscured in the shadows, careful not to make a noise so as to not disturb Yaxley.

“  – already positioned around Hogsmeade and the castle. We must protect the barricade and maintain control of the castle.”

Yaxley’s voice rings in the silence of the dining room. Draco frowns.

“The castle is our most important stronghold at the moment. The Dark Lord and our forces will take up arms there. I expect all of you – ”

There’s the sound of Yaxley’s voice, yes, but there’s also the absence of hissing and slithering, the lack of cold scales coiling on polished wood.

 _Nagini_ , Draco thinks.

“ – meet there. Our forefront of defense will be the giants, coming in from – ”

Draco’s stomach squeezes uncharacteristically. Something dangerous looms here, in this very room, and suddenly Draco feels an alien rush of fear.

He moves quickly, swiftly, silently. The sea of faceless Death Eaters parts silently as Draco slips out of the dining room, away from the resounding silence. He hopes that no one will follow him.

Outside, the sky has melted into a rich, velvet chocolate, dusted with powdered sugar. A memory snaps to the forefront of Draco’s thoughts: a twelve-year-old boy, in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor, watching a wrinkled house-elf push two round cakes onto a worn table that sags under the weight of a five-course dinner.

Draco frowns at himself, shaking his head as the memory slips away like dust through his fingers. Why that memory resurfaced, Draco does not know, but there’s nothing worthwhile in reliving the past. He shakes his head, brings his thoughts together.

His feet move swiftly and the gravel crunches underneath his shoes. An evening zephyr ruffles his hair and dances across his cheeks. When he reaches the Apparition spot, Draco thinks of red-hot fire scourging the earth, burnt tall grass, and green eyes, before the world spins into nothingness with a soft crack.

-

Spinner’s End is desolate and dreary. Brick houses line the dirty street, each one identical to the next. Paint peels off of off-white picket fences and the grass in every lawn is yellowed and wilted. Snape’s home is just another house in a line of houses. The mailbox leans precariously, stuck into the atrophying lawn. Inside, the place smells musty, and a little of dirt.

Silence fills the house, echoing against the fading argyle wallpaper and the stained, beige carpet and the tasteless popcorn ceiling. Draco brushes his thumb against his signet ring.

Without further thought, Draco ambles his way into the kitchen. A cauldron rests on the stovetop. Draco runs his pinky finger along its rim; it is warm to the touch. Draco forcibly represses the wave of nausea that rolls in his stomach.

To anyone else, it may seem as though the owner of the house has gone out for a bit, but in the gap that the kitchen door leaves, the unfinished potion on the stove, and the messy array of parchment paper out on a desk, Draco knows that Snape’s departure was not a planned one. Draco purses his lips and pushes the kitchen door until it closes with a click. He Conjures an empty glass vial and siphons the orangish liquid from the cauldron into aforementioned vial with his wand, and sends the parchment paper curling into a scroll with a flick of his wand.

Then, after tucking the vial into his robes, Draco Vanishes the empty cauldron. He glances around the kitchen for a final survey before briskly pacing from the room.

Only the sounds of his own footsteps accompany him as Draco makes his way up the rickety stairs. He casts a Detection charm as he walks, swishing his wand out in front of him and casting the charm like a net. But other than the stairs protesting underfoot, there is nothing.

The stale air of the attic settles uncomfortably in Draco’s lungs. The cramped space forces him to hunch his shoulders slightly as he makes his way across the dusty floor. A Pensieve teeters on a stack of old textbooks at the very end of the attic, underneath a grubby window.

Cautiously, Draco approaches the Pensieve. In the moonlight that filters through the sooty windowpane, the silver white memories swirling at the bottom of the Pensieve glow ethereally. Their eerie light halts Draco in his tracks. _Could it be?_ he muses.

Draco’s tongue darts out of his mouth, wetting his lips nervously. His eyes sting the longer he stares into the seemingly bottomless basin, and his nerves, jittery from his time at the Manor, engender a quick glance over the shoulder. Behind him, the room is empty.

Before he can stop himself, Draco shoves his wand gracelessly into his robes, stowing it away. The memories purl soundlessly in the basin with runic markings, dancing in invitation. Draco blinks away his uncertainty and dives into the basin before he can think better of it.

Draco falls artlessly into sunlight, his body – not quite corporeal – hanging in the air for a long second before his feet find warm ground.

“You’re a witch,” says a boy with oily hair and skinny limbs to another girl with hair the color of an autumn sunset. “And I’m a wizard.”

“Wizard!” shrieks a third child, her hair curling around her chin. “ _I_ know who _you_ are. You’re that Snape boy! They live down Spinner’s End by the river.”

And Draco watches in fascination as the scene morphs into something much softer, a memory well-loved and worn around the edges. Two children sit facing each other in a basin of cool green shade made by shadows cast by large trees overhead. The girl’s hair burns in the summer sunlight, which dapples the ground through emerald-green leaves. The colors of this world – this memory – vivid and bright, juxtapose the dark creases of Draco’s pants and his robes; Draco does not belong here.

“It’s real, isn’t it?” A twig flits between the slender fingers of the girl, the brown thing twirling in an imitation of a wand.

“It’s real for us,” Snape says, and his face is bright and open and eager like Draco has never seen it before.

The memory morphs into Snape and the same girl on the Hogwarts Express, their mouths curling into identical smiles around their Chocolate Frogs; and then morphs into Snape and the girl in the shrouded corridor on the third floor – Draco recognizes it easily – “He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!” and Draco narrows his eyes in suspicion. The girl – the woman now, her dressing gown spinning around her ankles as she disappears into the Gryffindor portrait hole – Potter’s mother, yes, but why?

Draco frowns as he watches the adult Snape beg Dumbledore, “Hide them all… keep her – them – safe.”

The memory grows darker now, shrouded and ominous, as Snape waves his wand over Dumbledore’s blackened hand. “His plan is to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me,” says Pensieve Dumbledore. Draco’s stomach lurches.

Snape raises his eyebrows and asks, “Are you intending to let him kill you?” just as Draco’s heart thrums in his ears, loud and pounding.

“Certainly not. _You_ must kill me.”

And Draco’s head buzzes; Snape replies drily but Draco thinks of that night, at the Astronomy Tower, the bright green light and the wand that Dumbledore had clutched in his hand –

“Harry must not know,” Dumbledore says, interrupting Draco’s thoughts, “Not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?”

At this, Draco snaps his attention away from the Elder Wand and toward the old Headmaster.

“There will be a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake,” Dumbledore rumbles.

“Nagini?” questions Snape and Draco curls his hands into fists. His thoughts dart to the dining room, just a mere handful of hours ago, to the silence of the room –

“ –  tell him the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort that night, and part of Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort’s mind. And while that fragment of soul remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die.”

Dumbledore’s words echo tinnily in Draco’s ears. The man in question seems composed as ever, his eyes twinkling knowingly underneath his half-moon glasses; Draco imagines him in relation to Grindelwald, as a teen who thought he had the world, and then as a brother, planting little orange fruits in the earth, and as a professor, wrapped up in both his wizard blue robes as well as his flaws.

And then Snape speaks with Dumbledore, except this time, the professor leans against the golden back of his chair in an oil painting, his eyes unmixed smears of sharp blue that the artist hadn’t bothered to blend in. “ – give them the sword, yes, I know.” Snape hefts the sword up in his left hand, its pommel red and royal and glistening. “Don’t worry Dumbledore, I have a plan.”

The memory melts without a sound, the ornate accoutrements of the Headmaster’s office blurring into the dusty window of Snape’s attic. Draco’s heart thumps loudly in his chest, even after Draco wills it to slow. Draco blinks, and then jolts out of his reverie. He Conjures a glass vial and siphons the memories out of the stone basin, coaxing them into the vial, then carefully tucks the vial into his robes. And then, Draco hesitates, fingers wrapping around his wand, gripping the base tightly.

He makes his way down from the attic shortly after that, tucking his wand decisively into his pocket. Only two glass vials clink in his robes.

There’s a bitter feeling in the bottom of his stomach, even after he leaves that musty attic, leaves Snape’s house, and leaves Spinner’s End, even as he makes his way to the Apparition point and hears the resounding, definitive crack.

 


	12. twelve

Harry dreams that he is in Hogwarts again. The curtains of his four-poster bed are heavy around him. Outside, rain whispers at the window.

“Harry,” a female voice calls out delicately. He shifts slightly. Gray sunlight leaks through cracks in his curtains and a groan bubbles from out of his throat.

The voice calls out again. “Harry, where are you?”

Harry turns in his sleep and his Gryffindor sheets melt into worn cotton. Gray sunlight still leaks through the gaps between the slats covering his window. As he wakes, his fingers untangle themselves from where they were entwined in his sheets.

“Harry?”

He blinks away the last remnants of sleep and cracks his eyes open fully. Hermione stands in the doorway to his bedroom. “Sorry,” she says timidly. Her eyes dart around the room before meeting his gaze. “I didn’t mean to wake you, we just – ”

Harry sits up abruptly, wide awake. He takes in the empty firewhiskey bottle and the dog-eared books strewed around his bed, and Hermione’s calculating expression before throwing back the covers and clambering out of bed.

“No, it’s fine, I’m glad to see you back safe,” he says hastily, getting up and giving her a quick hug. “How has it been? Where’s Gin and Neville?”

“Downstairs,” she grimaces, “We would’ve sent you a Patronus but we just got the cup from Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault – in Gringotts.” She winces as they make their way downstairs and Harry eyes her pallid skin, the cuts and abrasions covering her hands and neck. “We would’ve destroyed the cup but Griphook got the sword and we’ve no idea – ”

“Harry!”

Unison bellows fill the kitchen as soon as Hermione and Harry step in; Harry’s heart lifts at the sight of his companions. “Come here you,” Ginny smiles fondly and something in Harry’s chest aches as Ginny envelops him in a tight hug, as Neville grins crookedly and slaps him on the back, as Hermione watches on with a bittersweet expression.

It feels strange; the safehouse fills with their conversation, warm and loud and everything that Harry’s missed for the last few months.

“What’s the plan?” asks Harry, after pleasantries have been exchanged. “Where are we going next?”

Hermione opens his mouth to speak but Ginny beats her to it. “Well, we’ve got all the Horcruxes besides the diadem – ”

“But the diadem could be anywhere,” Neville shakes his head, “Albania, Scotland, Malfoy Manor.”

“Let’s worry about that in a bit,” Ginny sighs tiredly, “Neville’s got a cut that I want to look at and Merlin knows we all need a shower."

Silence unfurls in the kitchen and Harry can sense Neville’s hesitation, his burning desire to leave _now_ , to find the rest of the Horcruxes this very minute and Harry feels rather apathetic in comparison. He wonders when he lost the drive to fight.

“She’s right,” Hermione says finally, splintering the silence into shards. “We need the rest and we don’t even know where we’re going next,” she chides, gently but firmly. Neville glances at Harry. Harry’s eyes flit over Neville’s bruised eye, the angry cuts on Ginny’s arms and the dullness in Hermione’s eyes. Harry returns his gaze to Neville and dips his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“Alright,” sighs Neville and Harry watches Hermione’s shoulders slump with relief.

“Alright,” Ginny echoes.

“The bathroom is up the stairs and down the hall,” Harry supplies and both Neville and Ginny nod gratefully, leaving the room with little more than a muttered ‘thank you.’

Harry watches them go. When he turns back to face Hermione, she watches him with an unreadable expression. “What?” Harry asks.

“Nothing,” she glances down at her hands. “It just – it feels weird to be back,” she confesses, walking up to the countertop and taking an empty seat.

Harry hums in agreement. He stands there for a moment, then begins to make tea.

“How is – how’s McGonagall’s project?” asks Hermione a moment later and it takes Harry a minute to realize that she’s asking about Draco. His mouth feels dry.

“He’s been – he’s been useful,” Harry says finally, “And I think, I – I finally understand him. Better than I ever thought I would anyway.”

“He’s spent most of the year coming here,” she replies neutrally and Harry nods slowly. He thinks of Draco suddenly, the thought of him bubbling to the surface of his thoughts like a buoy in water – the curl of his pale mouth, the twitch of his slender fingers against his wrist and against his signet ring.

And then Harry snaps back into the moment. Hermione watches him carefully and suddenly Harry feels the need to apologize.

She says, her words soft, “You’re quieter.”

“What do you mean?”

She purses her lips in thought. “Not that you – ” she pauses then tries again. “You seem more at peace. With yourself.”

Harry lets out a long breath of air. He pours tea into two mugs, pushes one toward Hermione. “I’ve had a lot of time to think here.”

“About?”

Harry sips at his tea. It is hot and scalding. “Everything, really. Me. Dumbledore, the war. Everything.”

She lets out a satisfied noise as she sips her tea but Harry can’t tell if it’s because of what he said or because of the tea. A small smile flits across her face. “You know, I’m not allowed to ask about anything that he might’ve told you,” she begins, “But I was worried about leaving you here, with just him.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Harry admits.

She says pensively, “No, I don’t think it was.”

“I feel like, at first,” Harry starts, “at first I felt like I wasn’t doing anything. I felt alone and I felt useless but – ” his breath hitches, “But after he started coming here we started discussing things that could help the Order and suddenly, suddenly I had something that I could do to help. I was researching and reading and learning – both about myself and about the world.” He wraps his hands around his tea, the warmth seeping into his palms. “I’ve learned a lot.”

“I’m glad,” Hermione says warmly, genuinely, and Harry feels a small bubble of warmth in his chest.

Then, “I really think that this war has changed us all,” she comments thoughtfully, looking into her tea. “The distance between Ron and I – I think we’ve grown. And I know Neville and Ginny have as well.”

Harry taps his wand against his thigh. He’s about halfway done with his cup of tea when he hears Hermione stifling a small yawn.

“You should be getting rest. You’re probably exhausted,” he says, and is glad he said so when she shoots him a grateful look.

Ginny and Hermione have opted to share Harry’s room while Neville takes the guest room. Harry finally begins to settle into the living room, claiming the couch to everyone’s chagrin. “It’s fine,” he insists. “I’ve been sleeping on that bed for a year, unlike you lot.”

The bedraggled trio has clambered into their respective rooms and Harry onto the couch when he hears the soft crack from outside the house.

He’s on his feet in an instant, legs moving him toward the door, out of the house and into the cold and indifferent night.

There are a thousand thoughts running through his mind, a thousand iterations of an apology – _I didn’t mean to, I know there’s no way you could possibly_ –

Around him, the stars twinkle carelessly and the night zephyr sneaks under his loose shirt and pants. Draco wears black slacks and a white dress shirt, his sleeves ironed into crisp creases. _I’m sorry, you don’t_ –

“Potter,” Draco greets neutrally, emotionless. “I think you’d like to know that I’ve discovered the location of the last Horcruxes.”

“I – ” Harry says; his train of thought has been entirely derailed. “That – that’s fine, but – ”

“That’s fine,” Draco echoes, “That _is_ fine, seeing as it’s the thing half of the Order has been running around, trying to find for the last year.”

“Yes, I mean, that’s important to us, but I wanted to – ”

“Hogwarts,” Draco interrupts, and he looks bored. His eyes are cold and his skin tinted pink from the icy grip of the night. “They’re in Hogwarts and the Dark Lord will do anything to protect them.”

Harry opens his mouth to speak but Draco’s eyes are ice. “Them?”

“His entire army will be there to protect the castle, but more importantly, Nagini will be there. You must take this opportunity as soon as possible.” Draco pauses for breath. “If you don’t – ”An unfriendly smile paints itself across his lips. “Well, just don’t.”

“Malfoy,” implores Harry, stepping forward, closer to Draco. “Just let me – ”

“No,” Draco says firmly, gaze fixed on a spot somewhere over Harry’s left shoulder, “No. There are other, more important things that must be dealt with right now; I don’t have time to – ”

“This is important to me,” Harry interjects, “This right now, matters more. Listen to me, Draco, I’ve been putting my needs last as long as I can remember – and I know you have been as well – but right now I am putting _myself_ first. I’m putting _you_ first because I want – ”

Draco shakes his head, eyes bright, “Not now, you idiot – ” he begins to hiss.

“Harry?”

He whirls around. Hermione stands in the doorway of the safehouse, eyes drowsy and hair wild. “I came down for tea and I saw the door open – I didn’t – ”

Harry says automatically, “It’s fine,” and Draco lets out a snort of disbelief from behind him.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Hermione says curiously.

“Granger,” Draco replies mockingly. “I do hope you’d be a better host than Potter here; he hasn’t even invited me inside.”

-

Friday evening finds Harry Potter nursing a cold glass of firewhiskey, eyes blearily blinking back sleep. His fingers curl instinctively around the glass.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” Hermione says from somewhere to his left.

“Two forces by the left wing, past the Astronomy Tower,” Draco answers patiently, his voice blurry. Draco sits to Harry’s right. Harry blinks four times in succession in an attempt to clear his vision.

Draco leans over a crude map of Hogwarts, wand tapping at foretold locations of attacks. “And there will be giants coming in,” Draco leans across the countertop to tap at the Black Lake, his black dress shirt pulling tight across his flank, hugging his slender hips. “From the west side of the Lake. They’re not attacking anyone; they’re there to make sure that no one tries to penetrate the castle.” Draco continues speaking but Harry does not hear. The smell of lemon and mint curls thick in Harry’s lungs as Draco pulls back and suddenly Harry wants it so bad – to tangle his fingers in Draco’s hair and to press his thumbs into the soft skin of Draco’s ribs –

He wants it so badly that it aches and his mouth feels dry. He wants to apologize.

Harry’s head spins.

“We leave as soon as the others wake then. We’ll go back to the castle, see how the others are. Find the last of the Horcruxes, hopefully without raising any suspicion. We can use the secret entrance in Hog’s Head,” concludes Hermione. Her skin is pale and she looks peaky.

“That soon?” Harry rasps, voice groggy. He feels disoriented.

“The sooner the better,” Draco agrees.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Hermione excuses herself delicately and Harry’s heart lurches at the prospect of being left alone with Draco. As she pads from the room, Draco begins to head toward the front door.

“Malfoy,” Harry calls out suddenly, without really thinking about it.

And, surprisingly, Draco slows, the back of his perfectly combed hair, the back of his blond head, turning slightly, just so that Harry can catch a glimpse of his profile – the slope of his neck, the curl of his lip.

“If you’re going to – ”

“The map,” blurts out Harry, and it’s as though someone else has taken control of his body: he speaks without recognizing his own words. “Is there anyone stationed by the greenhouses?”

It’s horrible. Harry’s words are soft and hoarse and a little desperate but Draco turns anyway, with all the grace and the poise of a panther, his expression unreadable as he strides back to the kitchen table. He taps a spot by the Forbidden Forest, lips moving to form words, but Harry can’t be bothered to listen.

Instead, Harry rises from his seat, finishing his glass of firewhiskey with a final swing, to stand close to Draco.

There’s something to be said about the sudden fervor that the firewhiskey imbues him with, the sudden courage that floods him like a monsoon. Harry catches the scent of mint and lemons, so achingly familiar that suddenly, Harry _misses_ Draco, even though he’s standing right here – right next to Harry.

“What would you have done,” Harry says, because he can’t think of another way to stop himself from reaching out to touch – he’s not allowed to touch now, he tells himself. “If you hadn’t – hadn’t come here?”

Draco pauses in the middle of his explanation. He blinks at the map on the table. “I would’ve gone to France. Like Pansy and Blaise.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

Draco sneers, but it seems out of habit than any actual sentiment. For a moment, they both are quiet. Then, “Snape’s dead.”

“How do you know?” Harry asks.

“If he isn’t now, he will be soon. The – the Dark Lord took him. I don’t know where, but I suspect he won’t last long.”

Harry frowns. “But I thought – ”

“Snape killed Dumbledore,” Draco says, “Snape’s the true owner of the Elder Wand, and I suspect the Dark Lord isn’t pleased with the wand at the moment.”

“So he wants to kill Snape to become the true owner,” finishes Harry.

Draco dips his head delicately, eyes still fixed on the map on the table.

“You said them,” Harry remembers abruptly. “There’s more than one?”

“The snake,” Draco exhales shakily. The war has taken its toll on Draco – like everyone else – but it’s particularly surprising to see a thin film of dirt underneath Draco’s nails, to see the sweat stains on Draco’s starchy collar.

“The snake is a Horcrux,” Harry repeats, mostly to himself.

“Yes.” Draco turns away.

How the other is so good at compartmentalizing, Harry will never know; aside from Draco’s less than perfect appearance, there’s no outward indication of anything being wrong at all.

Harry, on the other hand, feels raw with emotion; he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries, but at the same time, it is _the_ last night, the penultimate moment –

Harry inhales and speaks.


	13. thirteen

“Are you – ” Potter begins, slowly, tentatively.

“Dolohov’s done it,” Draco snaps coldly, interrupting him. “He’s figured out how to use Magna Motus.”

Abruptly Potter stands up, eyes volatile.

_Do not –_

“What do you mean,” Potter says, “You said it would take at least – ”

_Do not –_

“I was wrong,” Draco snarls, anger flaring hot in his stomach before he clamps down on it, narrowing his explosive fury into something much colder –

_My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; it has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams – like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves._

“I was wrong,” Draco repeats calmly,  coldly, his hands flat at his sides, palms pressing into the seams of his robes, “And we have to figure out how to stop the Dark Lord. We have to – ” Draco chokes and suddenly, the weight of the situation slams into him like a Full Body-Bind Curse.

_Each man's life represents a road towards himself, an attempt at such a road, the intimation of a path. No man has ever been entirely and completely himself._

Potter steps closer to Draco. “How? How do we do it?” He takes another step.

_Yet each one strives to become that – one in an awkward, the other in a more intelligent way, each as best he can. Each man carries the vestiges of his birth – the slime and eggshells of his primeval past – with him until the end of his days…_

“I don’t – ” Draco starts, his head swirling; he feels fragile and unanchored, his mindset tilted, “I don’t know, I don’t – ”

_Each represents a gamble on the part of nature in creation of the human. We all share the same origin, our mothers; all of us come in at the same door._

“Tell me how,” Potter repeats insistently, digs his fists into Draco’s shirt, “Tell me how we can distract them, I know you know – _think,_ Malfoy, _think_!”

_But each of us – experiments of the depths – strives toward his own destiny. We can understand one another; but each of us is able to interpret himself to himself alone._

“I – distract them – we can,” Draco looks around the room wildly, as if his surroundings can help him.

_Fucking Death Eater scum –_

“The Horcruxes,” Draco says suddenly, whipping his head back to face Potter, “He cares more about his Horcruxes than anything – the, the time-travel is supplementary; it’s an ego boost,” Draco thinks aloud, collecting his scattered thoughts from where they lie, “But his Horcruxes are _important_ , they’re his life, and he’ll protect them – he’ll – ” he blinks rapidly. “Tomorrow. You have to go to the students – you have to go to McGonagall and tell them to _fight_. It’s our best chance of holding him back from using Magna Motus. Granger doesn’t want anyone to know that you’re coming for the Horcruxes, but the Dark Lord _has_ to know. That’s the only way he won’t use Magna Motus.”

“The plangentines,” Potter asks, “Are they – ”

“I took the finished potion from Snape’s but it doesn’t take long to brew.” Draco shakes his head. “It’s only temporary – ”

“That’s fine,” Potter says, pursing his lips, “That’s fine, we just need that time – ”

“It’s not fine,” Draco hisses. “We have to – ”

“Slow down,” Potter yanks at Draco’s shirt, “You can’t go anywhere before you calm – ”

“I have to go,” Draco insists, “Back to Snape’s, to make sure the plangentines are destroyed.”

“You can’t do any of that when you’re like this,” Potter interrupts, “You were the one that told me you need a blank mind to hide – ”

“I know!” Draco snaps, frustration thick in his throat.

“You could hex me if it’d help,” Potter says drily.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?” Draco retorts, his tongue sharp with frustration. “You think – mhm,” Draco’s sentence is cut off as Potter crushes their mouths together, pent up energy and anger bubbling over into his kiss.

And this is something they might’ve done at Hogwarts; this is something rough and filthy and desperate –

Potter manages to say, voice strained. “Merlin, you – ” his sentence trails off when Draco squeezes. Draco hums in agreement, sliding his other hand up Potter’s shirt, nails scraping against a nipple.

“Fuck me,” Potter pants, “Fuck me right here, against the wall – I know you know that spell for lube – ”

Anticipation is a knot in the back of Draco’s throat; his hands are sweaty and his muscles tense.

“Every time I ask you to fuck me,” Potter pants, “I think of the first time – ” he yanks his pants and boxers, murmurs something under his breath, then pumps his slick hand up and down his prick. “First time you fucked me over the desk in Binns’ classroom at Hogwarts – come _on_ , Malfoy, come on.”

Draco catches Potter’s bottom lip between his teeth, feels Potter shove his wet tongue into Draco’s mouth, and Draco _pushes_ , pushes Harry backwards until there’s a thump when they hit the wall –

“Draco,” Potter says, his voice raw and visceral – and what’s left of Draco’s diminishing willpower crumbles like sand in the wind. Draco snakes his fingers between Potter’s legs, slides one finger in, reveling in the heat and slickness of Potter’s entrance.

“Keep quiet,” Draco slurs, but his eyes are fixed on the pale bracket of Potter’s thighs, his heart thrumming eagerly.

“Come on,” Potter pants, and Draco obliges, slides two more fingers into Potter’s body with an obscene squelch, slick liquid coating his fingers and dripping out of Potter as Draco murmurs a quick spell under his breath. Potter’s body is pliant and pliable under Draco’s ministrations; every crook of his fingers elicits a soft moan that shoots straight to Draco’s dick – he slides his fingers in and out of Potter leisurely, admires the way sweat gleans on Potter’s chest, the way his teeth catch on his bottom lip when Draco spreads his fingers to stretch Potter out just that bit more.

“Don’t hold back,” Potter mutters, his voice gravelly, “I can tell you’re holding back – don’t – ”

_Do not –_

“This doesn’t mean – ”

“I know.” Potter’s voice is rough, ragged around the edges.

The next thing he remembers is his hips snapping of their own accord, Harry’s breath in his ear begging please, begging more, and every nerve in his body on _fire_.

Each swivel of Draco’s hips is accompanied by an obscene squelching sound. Every sensation is white-hot and wet and it’s fucking _glorious_ – Draco feels a carnal thrum running through his veins, his body working in concert with Harry’s.

And then something inside Draco breaks; the dam that has been building – since that night in the safehouse, since Dumbledore’s death, since the beginning of the war – crumbles into nothingness. The nerve inside Draco’s spine snaps and everything else melts away; nothing else is relevant besides this moment.

Draco comes embarrassingly fast, his breath low and furtive, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands furled into tight fists.

Draco presses his open mouth to the salty skin of Potter’s temple – just for a second, just so he can catch his breath – as Potter grunts lowly. Draco feels Potter’s calloused knuckles brushing against his belly, and the whole world feels so _warm_ and slow. Potter comes with a shudder, and then slumps against the kitchen table.

“I – ” he begins.

“Don’t,” Draco cuts through him sharply. Draco looks away, pulling his robes back around himself. He shouldn’t have –

“Malfoy – ”

“I said, _don’t_ , Potter.”

Potter exhales. Draco uses his wand to check the time and moves into the living room.

“Are we ever going to talk about this?” Potter trails behind him.

“Talk about what?” Draco snaps. His anger has drained away for the most part, leaving only a thrumming impatience under his skin despite the impossibly late hour.

“About this?”

Draco sits on a threadbare couch, staring into the fire. He tries not to think of anything.

“Malfoy,” Potter tries, fucking, _again_ , and Draco squeezes his fists when he snaps, “Leave it, Potter.”

And the fire ignores them both, swaying gently, free from all worry. Draco wonders if he will ever be able to live like that.

An indeterminable amount of time passes. Draco half-expects Potter to interrupt, but nothing save for the sound of fire crackling fills the room.

Then Potter sprawls on the couch. Draco ignores him, robes swirling expertly around his ankles as he turns sharply into the kitchen.

Draco rummages through the cupboards. He grabs a bottle of firewhiskey before returning to the sitting room.

Potter’s glasses are nowhere to be found; his right arm is thrown over his face, obscuring most of his drowsy expression. Draco nudges Potter’s ankle with his knee, situates himself in the space after Potter retracts his leg.

The couch is worn and soft under Draco’s weight. The fire pops and hisses. Draco’s thoughts are heavy in his head like stones at the bottom of a murky pond. The longer he sits still, the more tired he becomes; his bones are cement rods in his body, weighing him down until he is unable to move. He feels older than his eighteen years might indicate. His head aches.

Draco takes a swing of firewhiskey and it burns his throat. It’s late, far too late for the both of them to be awake. And yet, here they are, wasting away the early hours of the day, as if sitting here and watching the fire will prolong the coming of tomorrow.

 _Do not_ –

Potter lets out a small, throaty noise.

The fire crackles and Draco allows his eyes to slide shut, lets the bottle of firewhiskey slump slightly.

“Does it even matter?” Potter interrupts his reverie quietly, his words a soft murmur. “What we’re fighting for?”

And Draco is still for a moment, his eyes still shut. He shouldn’t be here, after what happened the last time, he shouldn’t –

“Sorry,” Potter says abruptly, and he wrings his hands in a rare display of self-consciousness. “I just – ”

“It doesn’t really matter to me,” Draco interrupts harshly, “It doesn’t matter,” he attempts again, less roughly. “Because I’d still get shit from either side, no matter who wins.”

When he cracks open his eyes, Potter is staring into the fire, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I used to be so sure,” he says, and Potter’s voice is raw and innocent, his eyes wide. “I used to think I knew exactly what was right and wrong, and – and I thought that I was _doing the right thing_. I thought that our side had to be right, that all of the Order was _good_ and – ”

“And it isn’t that easy,” Draco says somberly, bringing the firewhiskey to his lips.

“No,” Potter agrees. “It’s not.”

Draco shifts and, within his robes, two glass vials click. He freezes.

Potter doesn’t seem to notice – or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“I should go,” Draco says suddenly. Potter makes no move to stop him.

Draco stands up, sways slightly, then casts a sobering charm nonverbally. He straightens his robes and inhales. _Do be careful_ , Snape had said.

“Dolohov’s figured out Magna Motus,” Draco begins slowly, “But, that’s not all.”

Potter looks up. “What are you on about?”

“I – when I went to Snape’s,” Draco says, uncharacteristically hesitant, “There was something else I found.”

Draco knows.

He knows that as soon as the vial of memories is within Potter’s possession, there will be no stopping him from making that sacrifice – the ultimate sacrifice –

Potter sits up abruptly, nostrils flaring. “Was it important? Why did you chose now of all times to tell me?”

“Because,” Draco snaps harshly, “Because, you fucking _idiot_ , I knew that you’d – ” Draco cuts himself off with an audible click of his teeth. His fingers tremble slightly as he reaches into his robes, pulling out a vial of thick memories. He strides across the living room and presses the cold glass into Potter’s sweaty hand.

Potter’s cheeks are flushed with alcohol but his eyes are still impossibly green, impossibly bright. Draco looks away with difficulty. “You’ll find out soon enough,” Draco says coldly, pulling the last shreds of his dignity around him, folding his anger deep into his chest.

Draco turns before he can stop and sink into that atrocious couch right next to Potter, before he can stop and really think about last time, their last conversation in this room, the way he’d stormed off –

Draco turns and moves to leave.

“Whose side will you be on?” blurts out Harry and Draco halts. “Tomorrow, who will you be fighting for?”

Draco turns his head slightly, directing the words over his shoulders. “Isn’t it obvious, Potter? I’m fighting for myself.”

 


	14. fourteen

Dawn breaks slowly over the horizon, trembling slightly at first, like a drop of water trembling at the bottom of a sieve, waiting to fall.

The sunlight trembles and then breaks through, rays of light peering over the horizon and covering the earth and the land; tall grass sways slowly, around a wooden safehouse in the middle of a plain in the middle of nowhere. Time cannot reach here.

Inside the safehouse, Harry Potter wakes.

Within thirty minutes of the exact moment that Harry Potter wakes, the inhabitants of the safehouse have: waken from their sleep, eaten a measly breakfast of oatmeal and shriveled apple, changed into dark robes that resemble Hogwarts ones, and prepared to depart, their knuckles white around their wands and an Apparition spell on the tips of their tongues.

“Ready?”

Harry nods and Neville, apparently satisfied, steps between Ginny and Hermione. Harry pulls the Cloak down as far as it will go, and together the four of them turn on the spot, into the crushing darkness.

As their feet touch road, an achingly familiar sight rises up to greet them: Hogsmeade High Street, fit with dark shop fronts, the outline of black mountains beyond the village, the curve in the road ahead that leads off towards Hogwarts, light spilling from the window of the Three Broomsticks. Harry remembers landing here a year before, supporting a desperately weak Dumbledore; all this in a second, upon landing – and then, even as he relaxes his grip on Ginny and Hermione, a scream tears through the air.

The Caterwauling Charm tears through the air, high-pitched and keening, alerting six Death Eaters –

“ _Accio Cloak_!” one of them roars but the Sticking charm keeps the cloak of invisibility over the four of them; the Death Eaters call several dementors and Harry’s stomach plummets – the cold bites deep into his flesh; “ _Expecto Patronum!”_ he whispers –

And then a rough voice, “Potter, in here, quick!”

The Death Eaters yelling; the four of them piling into the Hog’s Head; “Stag?” roars the barman, “It’s a _goat,_ idiot!”

And then there’s Aberforth Dumbledore, a platter with a large loaf of bread, some cheese, a pewter jug of mead; ravenous, the four of them eat. And Neville says, “We’ve got to get into the castle, you don’t understand.”

And Aberforth says, “Oh, don’t I? You don’t think I understood my own brother? Think you knew Albus better than I did?”

Harry feels nauseous; perhaps in another life, he would be the one sitting across from Aberforth, full of life and fight and vigor, but today, in this life, in this world, Harry is _tired_ and he wants the war to be over. He wants to see his friends again and he wants peace.

Neville protests, “But you’re fighting too, you’re in the Order of the Phoenix – ”

“I was,” Aberforth rumbles, and Hermione and Ginny watch their conversation with lidded eyes, “The Order of the Phoenix is finished. You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone who’s pretending different’s kidding themselves. Get out of here while you can.”

“But,” Neville says, “We’ve got a job – ”

“Give it to someone else!”

“We can’t – it’s got to be us, Dumbledore explained it all – ”

“Did he? Did he tell you everything? Was he honest with you?” Aberforth’s eyes flash.

“Please,” Harry interrupts, “We just – ”

But Aberforth Dumbledore has spent far too long in this inn with nothing but the crackling fire and a bottle of firewhiskey to keep him company; his eyes flash once more, bright and blue and just like his brother’s, and he speaks of Ariana and Albus and Grindelwald: “At last, my brother had an _equal_ to talk to, someone just as bright and talented as _he_ was. Grand plans for the benefit of all Wizardkind, and if one young girl got neglected, what did that matter, when Albus was working for the _greater good_?”

Harry listens with keen knot of revulsion in his stomach, his gut twisted as he imagines the three wizards – Aberforth and Albus and Grindelwald – dueling, and Ariana –

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispers.

“How can you be sure,” Aberforth demands from them, “How can you be sure that you aren’t dispensable, just like my little sister? Why didn’t he tell you to hide if you’re so valuable?”

“I don’t believe it,” Ginny narrows her eyes, “Dumbledore – ”

“Because,” Neville argues hotly before Ginny can continue. Harry twists his hands into his robes, watching without a sound. “Because sometimes, you’ve _got_ to think about more than your own safety! Sometimes you’ve _got_ to think about the greater good! This is war!”

“Please,” Harry interrupts, his voice dry. Ginny and Hermione turn to face him, as though they’d forgotten he were there. “We just have to get into the castle. Our friends are there, and we’ll get there some other way, even if you don’t help us.”

Aberforth looks at Harry for a long moment.

And Aberforth turns to the portrait of Ariana. “You know what to do.”

“Er – what,” Hermione begins, but then Ariana disappears into the tunnel.

“There’s only one way in now,” Aberforth explains, “They’ve got all the passageways covered, with dementors all around the boundary walls. Place has never been so heavily guarded.”

“But – ”

Before Hermione can continue, Ariana reappears, Ron Weasley at her side.

-

Ron leads them back to the Room of Requirement, his eyes bruised and his lip split but his teeth glinting with a fevered smile, talking all the while. He calls Luna and Dean with a fake Galleon, and the lot of them burst into the Room of Requirement, students shouting out, calling for Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Neville.

“Is it true? You broke into Gringotts?”

“You escaped on a dragon?”

“Yeah, it’s true,” Neville grins and Harry follows them.

In the room, old members of Dumbledore’s army pour in, their faces eager and bright.

“The lost diadem of Ravenclaw?” Luna asks after they finish explaining. “I can show you what it’s supposed to look like – Ravenclaw’s wearing it in her statue in our common room.”

Neville nods his head. “Good idea. Harry and I’ll go with Luna and,” Neville glances back at the others, “Wait for us here and keep, you know – the other one – safe.”

The room of pale, gaunt faces, nods back solemnly.

-

They sneak out of the room, out of a small cupboard, and take a steep staircase that turns corners in unexpected places. Neville throws the Cloak over all three of them.

Luna touches a shrouded, solid wall, which melts away like butter under her touch; they slip inside easily, climbing a spiral staircase in tight, dizzying circles.

“Which came first, the phoenix or the flame?” the eagle-knocker asks.

“A circle has no beginning,” Luna says mysteriously, and they enter the Ravenclaw common room, which is domed and decorated with stars echoing against midnight-blue carpet.

“There,” Neville murmurs, pointing towards a statue of Rowena Ravenclaw. Harry steps out from under the cloak – “ _Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure_ ,” he reads softly – and turns just in time to see Alecto Carrow pressing a stubby forefinger to the skull and snake branded to her arm.

 _They have the boy_ , he hears in his head; Harry’s scar burns horrifically –

A loud bang signals the success of Luna’s Stunning charm; Harry stares down at the limp figure of Carrow on the ground, his heart thumping out of his chest.

“Get back,” Neville hisses, and Harry obliges, ducking under the cloak just as several Ravenclaws awaken. And then the other Carrow stumbles into the room, McGonagall on his heels – “She’s only Stunned,” Professor McGonagall says impatiently, “She’ll be perfectly all right,” and Harry’s heart tightens slightly –

“No she bludgering well won’t!” Amycus bellows, “Not after the Dark Lord gets hold of her! She’s gorn and sent for him, I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we’ve got Potter!”

And then Neville throws off the cloak, “ _Crucio_!” and Harry whips off the cloak as well –

“That was very –  very _gallant_ of you, Longbottom, but – don’t you – ”

“He’s on the way, professor,” Neville says, “And we have to find the diadem of Ravenclaw. We’re acting on Dumbledore’s orders – ”

And then everything is happening all at once: “Voldemort’s on the way,” Neville repeats; “Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?” Luna asks; and McGonagall says she and the staff can hold the school down and Flitwick and Sprout come barreling down the corridor; “There’s a passageway to let people in and out – at the Hog’s Head – ” ; “the diadem of Ravenclaw?” squeaks Professor Flitwick at Harry’s question, “Nobody has seen it in living memory!”

The world seems to blur around the edges, with Neville’s striped jumper and the dangle of Luna’s earrings the only things anchoring Harry down; as they rush towards the Great Hall, where the masses are congregating, Harry and Luna and Neville meet crowds of students, most wearing traveling cloaks over their pajamas –

“That was Potter!”

“ _Harry Potter!”_

“It was him, I swear, I just saw him!”

– but Harry doesn’t look back and neither do Neville and Luna; they’re too caught up in the rush: this is it, this is the moment, now, and it seems unreal.

As they rush into the Great Hall, the enormous double doors opening to reveal Hogwarts students huddled in groups, preparing to evacuate, and members of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore’s Army, spilling out with wands in hand, Harry imagines all of the times he’s walked through these doors before: every morning for breakfast and every lunch and dinner, every Sorting Ceremony and Triwizard Tournament and end-of-year-speech; all of it feels as though it wasn’t really real, just a blur of days melted into one another, an indistinguishable mess of memory and warmth and _home_ and, to think, that it might all be gone –

“I’m in Dumbledore’s Army!” Ginny protests, as they push their way towards the Weasleys.

“A teenagers’ gang!”

“A teenagers’ gang that’s about to take him one, which no one else has dared to do!” shouts Fred, pushing Mrs. Weasley aside.

“Ron,” Harry says faintly, tugging at Neville’s sleeve and scanning the heads of students and teachers and Order members, “Ron and Hermione – where – ”

There’s Percy – and Harry has just a moment to recognize the horn-rimmed glasses – fumbling with his glasses and saying, “Am I too late? Has it started? I only just found out so I – I – ”

Harry moves aside as Mrs. Weasley strides towards her son; his stomach tightens with anticipation and he asks again, “Where are Ron and Hermione? I thought – ”

“The bathroom,” Ginny pushes past Tonks to answer, “They said something about a bathroom, not long after you left.”

“You’re sure,” Neville frowns, “They said – ”

Before any of them can speak again, a clear voice rings through the school, reverberating throughout the corridors and classrooms and common rooms: “I know you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile,” Voldemort says. “I do not want to spill magical blood. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.”

Harry blanches as silence swallows them all again; he looks across the Great Hall, waiting for someone to call out, waiting for someone to shout, “He’s here! He’s here, take him!” but no one says a word and Harry’s gaze catches on the knot of Slytherins bunched at the far corner of the Great Hall.

Harry thinks of Draco for the first time in a few hours and shivers involuntarily.

The noise around Harry picks up again as McGonagall and Kingsley heard the students out of the hall; Kingsley says something about the troops but Harry can’t hear – he doesn’t know what to think, what to do –

“Aren’t you looking for something, Longbottom?” McGonagall says primly and Neville darts off in search of the last Horcrux.

Harry swallows against the knot in his throat, shifting his weight when the bottle in his robes clinks. He blinks and his heart pounds in his ears.

“I – ” he gets out, “I have to go – ”

McGonagall calls something after him, but Harry’s already heading out of the Great Hall, to Dumbledore’s office and the Pensieve there.

-

“Evans, Lily!” calls out a young McGonagall.

The Pensieve version of Harry’s mother walks up to the Sorting Hat. “ _Gryffindor_!” it yells, and a tiny Snape groans.

Then, “You will have to give Voldemort the correct date of Harry’s departure from his aunt and uncle’s,” a portrait of Dumbledore says to Snape, “Not to do so would raise suspicion.”

Then, Snape swings the sword of Gryffindor out of its cavity. “Don’t worry, Dumbledore,” he says coolly, “I have a plan.”


	15. fifteen

Draco casts a Disillusionment charm and slips through the castle.

He reaches the forest quickly; Hogwarts and the Order’s forces are carrying bodies quietly, their faces gray as they wait. There’s only a few minutes until midnight.

Draco’s eyes dart back and forth as he heads towards the heart of the forest, where he knows the Dark Lord waits for Potter.

He steps over a large tree root when he hears a quiet rustle.

Draco freezes. The forest is dark and completely still.

“Malfoy?” he hears and Draco’s heart pounds in his chest _–_

A gust of wind rushes out of nowhere and something wraps around Draco’s wrist; his wand is out and an Unforgivable on his lips when he hears, “It’s me.”

“Potter?” Draco whispers, his heart still thumping, “What _–_ don’t take off the cloak.”

“I know, I – ”

“How did you know – ”

“The smell, the lemon and mint, I could – ”

“Are you going to give yourself up?” Draco murmurs quickly, speaking to what he thinks is Potter’s head, “You can’t – ”

 _Do not_ –

“They’ve got the last two, Malfoy. Ron and Hermione’ve got one, Neville’s got the other and the snake when they were in the Shrieking Shack. Don’t you see? There’s nothing – ”

“You can’t – ” Draco starts, but then a twig snaps and the fingers around Draco’s wrist disappear.

Dolohov emerges from the shadows and Draco quickly removes his Disillusionment charm.

“Draco,” Dolohov frowns. “There you are. Everyone is looking for you.”

“Sorry,” Draco mutters, stepping towards the Death Eater.

“Potter’s not here,” Dolohov looks around the woods; his eyes are gaunt and his skin is gray. “The Dark Lord wants us all back.”

-

They fall back without another word; Draco doesn’t dare to even think of Potter as Dolohov leads him back.

A fire burns in the middle of a clearing, its flickering light falling over a crowd of watchful Death Eaters. Draco sees Fenrir, skulking, chewing his long nails, the great blond Rowle dabbing at his bleeding lip. Every eye fixes upon Voldemort, who stands in the middle, white hands folded over the Elder Wand.

As Dolohov and Draco rejoin the circle, the Dark Lord looks up.

“No sign of him, my Lord,” says Dolohov.

“I thought he would come,” Voldemort says, slowly.

 _I never meant to do this, I never meant to be here, I never meant to_ –

Draco moves almost subconsciously, stepping back, into the shadows. “I was, it seems… mistaken,” says Voldemort.

Draco knows; he knows that as soon as Potter knows, there will be no stopping him from making that sacrifice, the ultimate sacrifice. He steps back again, putting several feet between him and the ring of Death Eaters.

“You weren’t.”

The Death Eaters rise together, crying out, gasping, even laughing; then a voice yells: “HARRY! NO!”

The giant, Hagrid, is bound and tied to a tree nearby. His massive body shakes the branches overhead as he struggles desperately. “NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT’RE YEH – ”

“Quiet!” shouts Rowle, and Hagrid is silenced with a flick of his wand.

Draco reaches carefully into his pocket, pulling out the vial of orange liquid. Everyone watches Potter and the Dark Lord.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort says very softly; his voice fits in with the spitting fire. “The Boy Who Lived.”

Draco flicks off the stopper with his thumb and brings the vial to his mouth.

None of the Death Eaters move. They wait: everything waits. Hagrid struggles, Bellatrix pants, and the plangentines taste sweet, a bit like Firewhiskey with apples and honey.

The Dark Lord raises his wand, head tilted to the side like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Draco, even from the distance that he stands away from the circle, sees the rise and fall of Potter’s nervous chest.

Draco whips out his wand and concentrates –

Voldemort’s mouth opens –

 _I never meant to do this, I never meant to be here, I never meant to_  

And Draco tears his wand in corkscrew movement –

 _Do not_ – 

Draco sees the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything is gone.


	16. sixteen

Sunlight sneaks its way into Knockturn Alley, staining the old brick walls and glinting off of dull windows.

Draco weaves his way through the alleys, stepping up the familiar stairs and heading back to Diagon Alley. The Alley is nearly deserted.

Other than that, however, the Wizarding World has remained almost the same. The Dark Lord, Draco shudders to think of him, even now, with all of his killing and undignified violence, was disposed of quite soon after the battle, leaving his Death Eaters in charge. _Thank God for it_ , Draco sniffs internally. He adjusts his collar.

He makes his way to the Leaky Cauldron and Floos back to the Manor with a nod to the witch who runs the tavern.

Before he even steps downstairs, Draco can tell that the Death Eaters are all in the dining room for dinner

He swears under his breath. In his bedroom, he changes into his finest pair of robes. The rich black robe slide on easily, like oil, and Draco runs two pale hands down the emerald embroidery. All the things in his room are intact, paraphernalia neatly organized on his desk: the vicious model of a Hebridean Black dragon, curled up and complacent in its glass confinement, a box of assorted quills made from feathers of Abraxan and Granian winged horses, an inky poster of Akihito School of Magic above his desk. Everything is normal.

When he comes downstairs, the Death Eaters are all assembled in the dining room, talking amongst themselves. The chandelier glints with candlelight. The house elves have made up the dining room rather nicely – the Persian carpets are impeccably clean, the silverware is gleaming, and the table is set for nearly thirty guests, including the new Minister of Magic, the latest puppet Yaxley has implemented.

“Alright, dear?” Narcissa materializes at Draco’s elbow.

“Fine,” Draco snaps, annoyed. He shrugs off her hand and moves towards his seat, to the left of his father and to the right of Yaxley. Both men have just returned from their work at the Ministry, tightening up the last ties to the non-Wizarding world, severing a tie that ought to have been severed centuries ago.

“Now that everyone is here,” Lucius Malfoy stands, smoothing down the front of his robes, looking pointedly away from his son, “I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight.”

A rumble of assent rises up from the table.

“It’s been a prosperous three years for us,” Lucius continues, “We’ve worked hard, and I’d like to thank you all for coming to celebrate the anniversary of our victory at the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“Cheers then,” Mulciber rumbles, holding up his glass. “To three years.”

“To three years,” echoes the rest of the table.

For a moment, Draco gets distracted by a glint in the corner of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco sees the corkscrew movement of a blur, and it seems as though the world freezes for a moment. Then he blinks. The moment is over.

Draco turns and holds up his glass. “To three years.”

-

Draco finishes the wand movement for Magna Motus, almost desperately –

He tries to rationalize what he just saw: the Death Eaters, the death of Harry Potter, the Dark Side’s

victory at the Battle of Hogwarts –

_The multiverse is a theory in which our universe is not the only one, but states that many universes exist parallel to each other. These distinct universes within the multiverse theory are called parallel universes._

Potter’s voice comes floating back, and Draco tries to put the pieces together –

“Draco?”

Draco rightens himself and looks around; he’s traveled again, and now, he’s in the Ministry. Draco quickly steps back, into the shadows and watches a version of himself – the version that lives here, that lives in this universe – pace through the Atrium, striding up to where Dolohov, who is wearing dark, rich olive robes is waiting.

“The new Prime Minister is waiting,” Dolohov warns, and Draco – the other Draco – nods stiffly. The Draco here is also wearing a similar pair of dark dress robes and Draco watches them with dread as they parade across the Ministry. Draco waves his wand in a corkscrew motion and the world blurs –

Deep inside of him, Draco wishes for another world, another universe, anywhere but here –

Click.

He’s in a cottage of some sort, somewhere warm: the air is thick and humid here, not unlike a Potions classroom. The rapid change has Draco reeling, and he has to pause for a minute so as not to retch all over his shoes.

“Draco, you’re back early. You said you were going – oh.”  

Draco turns.

Potter’s standing in the doorway to the small cottage, which has sandy, ecru walls and a rough floor. Perhaps they’re somewhere tropical. Draco feels dizzy.

“You alright?” Potter asks, frowning. His hair is rumpled and he’s wearing Muggle clothing.

 _Do not_ –

“You’re wearing robes. You haven’t worn robes since – ” Potter’s frown deepens, “Well, since the Battle.”

“I – ”

“Well, come on,” Potter says, cheerfully, dismissing that train of thought, “We’re Flooing back to Britain to have dinner with Hermione and Ron tonight.”

 _Another world, another universe_ –

“Dinner?”

“Yes,” Potter says, giving Draco an odd look as he walks closer. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Potter steps up and places two hands on either side of Draco’s face. “You feel cold.”

“I’m – I’m fine,” Draco says faintly.

Potter hums in acquiescence, leaning up on his toes to press his warm mouth against Draco’s. He tastes like sugar and pepper and everything in the world that Draco can’t have.

 _This is not my world,_ Draco wants to say, _these aren’t my choices_ , which is really painful to think, because it’s such a lovely place, but it’s not _his_ , this isn’t _his_ Harry, this isn’t _his_ life –

And, because Draco is a coward, because he is _weak_ , he parts his lips and moans into the kiss, reaches up into Potter’s hair and twists his fingers into that god-awful bird’s nest, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance again

“Actually,” Draco says, his skin flushed and his heart aching when Potter finally pulls away. “I think I’ll step outside for a moment.”

“Right,” Potter replies easily, moving to head further into the cottage. “Come back in when you’re feeling better.”

Draco waves his wand in a corkscrew motion as soon as Potter turns around – he has to find _his_ world –

 _Chaos theory_ , he thinks to himself, one wrong step, one flap of a butterfly’s wings and all of history is changed. The world around Draco blurs as the spell finishes, and Draco gasps for breath when the world stops spinning.

He feels like he’s drowning, in the vertigo, in the very idea that there could be a world where Potter _died_ , a world without –

There’s the low bang of a drum in the distance and Draco blinks.

This world is unlike anything Draco’s ever been in.

He looks up at the sky first, gray and clear and somber. Around him is a primeval forest with enormous, shadowy trees. Birds chirp in the distance, and the air is warm, the world quiet, save for the slow beat of a solitary drum.

“Oh fuck,” Draco murmurs, under his breath. He looks to his left. Between the tree trunks, down a slope, Draco comes to a break, over a fortified town obscured by the smoke of many fires. Oddly, the gates in the town wall were wide open, and there were no soldiers along the walls.

Draco, against his better judgement, walks down the slope, his wand clenched tightly in his robes, hidden from view. The town is empty, a ghost town, save for the drum.

The hairs on the back of Draco’s neck rise.

A dead soldier is on the ground, splayed open on his back. Draco sees streaks of blood coming from around his eyes and looks away. _He was guarding the gate_ , Draco thinks to himself, oddly detached.

Smoke pours into the air, issuing from tiny pots that are everywhere –  on the ground, on the walls, on the fence posts. And the town was still empty, even as Draco walked further in, deserted on this clear day.

And then, faintly, Draco hears the sound of monks chanting. They were coming towards him. Draco hears the drum and he –

 _Do not_ –

“You see, Draco?”

Draco whips around, wand pointed at the pale throat in front of him.

“I – ”

“You are so much cleverer than I thought you were,” the Dark Lord says. He looks older, almost sickly. His eyes are impossibly dark. “You brought us here, didn’t you?” The Dark Lord spreads his arms, encompassing the scene around them.

A dozen monks, dressed in pitch-black robes, round the corner in a procession, chanting ominously. Their eyes are downcast. Half of them are stripped to the waist, lashing themselves with metal-studded leather whips. Their shoulders and backs drip freely. _Flagellants_ , Draco thinks, _holy hell._

“I don’t – ” Draco starts, turning to face Voldemort again.

“You saw, didn’t you? With the spell? You saw what became of me, what became of you.” Voldemort’s voice grows raspy, as though with disuse. “You saw a world where our side prevailed,” the Dark Lord smiles here, cold and limp. His feet are bare, Draco registers belatedly. “And?”

“Nothing,” Draco says, unable to look away. “Nothing – it wasn’t different, it was just – ”

“A new reign,” the Dark Lord agrees. “There is no good and evil, my boy. Just power.”

Draco holds his breath and steps away from the monks, who continue past both him and the Dark Lord without pausing, ignoring them. Draco steps back and back, and the Dark Lord follows.

“You could’ve ruled them, Draco,” Voldemort continues.

His back touches something sturdy. Draco turns and sees a wooden horse cart, but without a horse. He sees bundles of cloth piled onto the cart, then a child’s foot, pale and fat and hite. A woman’s arm from another. The buzzing of flies becomes louder as a cloud of flies swarm over the bodies.

“Oh, Jesus,” Draco covers his mouth.

The arm has odd blackish lumps on it.

Draco’s readings come flooding back to him.

_The Black Death, in the year 1348, struck the medieval city of Castelgard and killed a third of the population. The plague spread by the bite of fleas, by touch, and by air. Simply breathing in the air was fatal enough to kill. The plague killed swiftly, and the unprotected people fell in the streets. A victim could be perfectly healthy one moment, but then the coughing ensues, followed by a headache. Death came within the hour._

Draco whirls around to the Dark Lord. “That’s not the life I choose,” Draco says.

“Take us back, Draco,” the Dark Lord says, his voice softer, “Take us back and together, we can have the future you saw, the power you saw.”

“You died,” Draco hisses, anger suddenly saturating his blood, “They killed you, in that world.”

“ _You_ can have the power,” the Dark Lord says. “Imagine, Draco, the things you could do.”

 _Another world, maybe another universe_ –

“I don’t belong here,” Draco says, twisting his wand in a corkscrew motion. “But you do.”

As Draco’s world begins to blur, he sees the Dark Lord slump down against a wall.

As he sits there, he begins to cough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this chapter is inspired by Michael Crichton's "Timeline," which is a fantastic novel about science and timetravel and the medieval era!


	17. seventeen

“Tell me one last thing,” Harry says. “Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?”

Dumbledore beams, and his voice is loud and strong in Harry’s ears even as the bright mist descends again, obscuring his figure

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

And then Harry is lying facedown on the ground again. With every breath, the smell of forest and earth fills his lungs. The ground is hard and cold beneath his cheek, and his glasses cut into his temple. The Killing Curse had hit his chest, and the muscle there feels tender. Every inch of him aches but he holds himself still.

“My Lord… _my Lord_ …” Bellatrix gasps.

“The boy… is he dead?”

Silence.

“Tell me if he is dead,” Voldemort says.

And then Harry holds his breath, his heart thumping traitorously. Hands, softer than he expected, touch his face, slip beneath his shirt, down his chest, to feel his heart. Harry smells faint mint and lemon and the relief that punches his gut is almost terrifying.

Draco’s breathing is shallow.

“He is dead,” Draco calls to the watchers, brushing his fingers against Harry’s throat before rising.

There are cheers and there are cries and there are bursts of light in celebration; then Hagrid is picking up his body, carrying him towards the castle.

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

And then they enter the Great Hall –

Screams of “No!” and “Harry!” from Ron, Hermione, Ginny, McGonagall act like a trigger, the crowd of survivors taking up the case and screaming and yelling until –

“SILENCE!”

Neville’s body breaks free from the crowd, and the Dark Lord says, “Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to oppose me,” then the Gryffindor sword emerges from the Sorting Hat; with a single stroke, Neville slices off the great snake’s head, and in the chaos, Harry grabs the Invisibility Cloak from within his robes

Hermione, Ginny, and Luna, all battling Bellatrix a few yards away – this is where Harry sees a Killing Curse dart past Ginny by a few inches; “ _Protego_!” he yells, and the Shield Charm expands in the middle of the hall. Harry pulls off the cloak and cheers and screams erupt from every side.

Voldemort’s mouth opens in a scream of fury that nobody hears, as the oncoming crowd roars, as the giants clash and as the centaurs stampede, and yet every eye watches the snake’s body thud to the ground.

Voldemort’s chest heaves, once, twice, and then his jaw unhinges, eyes rolled back in his sockets. He drops to his knees, arms outspread, and as the sleeves of his robes fall back, Harry sees black lumps on his arms.

Neville swings again, and then the body of Tom Riddle hits the floor with finality, feeble and shrunken, white hands empty, snakelike face vacant and unknowing.

One complete second of silence, resounding and thunderous, then the shock of the moment dispenses: the tumult breaks around Neville as the screams and cheers and roars of watchers rent the air. Ron and Hermione sweep Harry into their arms, and they’re pushed along by Ginny and Luna, then all the Weasleys and Hagrid, and Kingsley and McGonagall and Harry can’t hear anything, he can’t tell who is swarming where.

The sun rises steadily over Hogwarts, ignorant of their victory and of their loss; the Great Hall blazes with light. The crowd swarms around Harry and around Neville, around the fallen and the brave. They hear the news as the morning draws on, that the Imperiused were coming back to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else captured, the innocent of Azkaban being released, that Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of Magic.

It feels unreal. As Harry walks through the Great Hall, he imagines all of the hundred thousand times he’s walked across these marble floors, sat at these wooden tables. He imagines all of the times he’s walked down these corridors. Something bittersweet, like nostalgia and longing, rolls over him in a crushing wave. It is done; it is over.

Harry finds himself next to Luna a little while later, and she cries out, “Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” to distract the crowd as Harry slides his Cloak over himself, getting to his feet.

There’ll be time, hours and hours and days and days, to explain, but for now, Harry sends a quick Patronus to Ron and Hermione, relaying the fact that he is safe, that he will speak with them later. Harry walks almost mindlessly, students and teachers and members of the Order streaming past him, unseeing; they are laughing and crying and solemn, they are what Harry fought for; and now? It’s over.

Harry reaches a quiet alcove in a hidden corridor. He Apparates to the safehouse without delay, and Draco sits in the blue armchair, the hideous blue armchair, waiting.

“Was that you?” Harry asks without greeting. There’s grime and sweat caked across his face, this Harry knows, and his bones are so so heavy. He wants to sleep.

Draco looks up, as though surprised. His face is pale and he looks weak. His hair is uncharacteristically out of place, rumpled and messy as though he’d run a hand through it. His eyes are unreadable. Harry thinks of all the time they have spent together, here, in this safehouse.

“I took him back. Back in time, to the Black Plague, and – ” Draco shudders.

Harry sits down next to him. He can’t help but remember their last argument here.

 _You fell in love with me_ –

“I saw things, Potter,” Draco says, his eyes staring into the fire. “I saw a future where the Death Eaters won, and it was – it was like one of Father’s dreams, exactly what he wanted, it was – ” Draco shudders again.

And maybe Draco doesn’t love him, and maybe that doesn’t matter, because he came back, against all odds, he came back.

And that’s enough for Harry.

“Come on,” Harry says, standing. His bones ache. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Draco jerks his head up, perhaps disbelievingly. “You want me to go back there?”

“Back to Hogwarts,” Harry agrees. “They’re waiting for us.”

“They’re waiting for _you_ ,” Draco says. Harry expects him to sound caustic but he just sounds resigned.

“Come on.” Harry stretches out a hand, like the way Draco had, all those years ago.

Outside the window of the safehouse, the sun has just finished rising. Soft sunlight pours into the living room, over the dusty floors and old furniture.

After a heartbeat, Draco takes his hand.

Harry Apparates them back to Hogwarts, to where a new future, a new world, awaits.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!
> 
> This has been one of the most difficult pieces I've ever written, because of the busy year I've had and because of my sudden foray into the X-Men fandom (which resulted in five lengthy pieces). It's hard coming back, because I barely had the plot sketched out and had to essentially start from scratch. But I've finished!
> 
> Because of the long stretches of time between updated and between my writing sessions, I apologize if there are any holes in the story or if anything seems abrupt! I do realize that there's a lot left for me in this universe, especially with Harry and Draco's not-quite-resolved ending. 
> 
> A lot of why this piece means so much to me is that it contains many of my favorite ideas! I’ve mentioned a few of them, but here’s a compilation of all the ideas, books, authors, theories that I’ve used in my writing: J.K. Rowling (of course); _Demian_ by Hermann Hesse and _Isolation_ by bexchan on fanfiction.net (I know, I know, it’s Dramione, but it’s a classic and it’s so good!) because both of these pieces deal with characteristics I really like in developing relationships: two people intersecting in a singularly unique way in the former and the forced proximity in a safehouse in the latter -- I really tried to explore the idea of Harry and Draco intersecting in this safehouse, being forced together and learning each other, intimately, in a way neither of them expected; Einstein’s theory of relativity, the spacetime continuum, the multiverse and all that; and Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder” and Michael Crichton’s _Timeline_. For inspiration, I drew from a lot of sources: _The Tale of Princess Kaguya_ , the Ghibli film!; _The Epic of Gilgamesh_ , and _The Stranger_ by Albert Camus. I also found so many websites about the Harry Potter world: the Hogwarts castle page on the HP Wikia, several pages about Grindelwald and his relationship with Dumbledore, and Pottermore for spells and potions and the like! 
> 
> In regards to leitmotif itself, I know the last few chapters may be confusing. I tried to have Draco see the what ifs and the could have beens when he was using Magna Motus to jump from timeline to timeline. He saw a future wherein Voldemort was killed and the Death Eaters won, and what bothered him most about that timeline was how similar it was to his normal life. I tried to expand on the line where Voldemort was like "there's no good or bad," there. And then he saw a world where he'd joined the Order and he was living with Harry somewhere tropical (Mexico, maybe? I really love the idea of a universe where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, so maybe I’ll even end up writing more here!).
> 
> Ultimately, these worlds were are not results of his actions though (they’re from another Draco’s actions), so he decides to come back, out of all the universes there are, to his Harry and his actions. In a way, he's taking responsibilities for the things he's done. I want to explore more of these motives and justifications in -- possibly -- another installment of Symphonie Fantastique, which would take place right after leitmotif, and deal with the rebuilding after the war, as well as Draco’s motives and justifications for the things he did here.
> 
> Until then, thank you for reading!


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